Grace
by La Donna Ingenua
Summary: An atrocious act somehow, someway leads to joy, love, & well...Grace./ AU Halfway through Xmas Special/Matthew & Mary's happy ending, even in a seemingly impossible situation. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I want to make everyone aware that the first scene of this story is of a graphic and violent nature. If that's not something you want to read, then I suggest skipping this chapter, or at least the beginning of it...But I promise, promise, promise that this will be a happy story with a happy ending. _

* * *

><p>Chapter One<p>

Mary purposely wore red.

Back when she went to see him at his office, to throw herself on his mercy and beg him to help in the scandal, she also wore red. She had no "A" to pin to her dress. A red dress and a jaunty hat–though she felt anything other than jaunty–would have to do. She told herself she would not kneel before him, figuratively or literally, and beg. She told herself she would relay her situation without emotion or desperation. She would simply ask, her chin level, eyes cold. She wasn't above using her beauty, the coldness of it, the way she could hold herself as still as a statue while she waited for Sir Richard's judgement upon her. Would he save her or would he ruin her?

He called her "the cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley" and as her hands tightened in her brown leather gloves, the only movement she allowed herself, she realized that this was a man she could not cross, and worse than that she knew, in the way that women do, that the less she wanted him, the more he would want her. He seemed positively jolly knowing his future wife had a lover before him. Every time he said "the turk" his voice split with joy.

She knew she should be thankful for what he was doing for her but when he called her "the cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley" she felt something she did not quite recognize–fear or revulsion; she could not be sure which. But she simply could not afford to examine those feelings, not then, not when he was rescuing her.

The man himself was such a conundrum, so modern in his thinking but needing badly the approval of a group of people one could only be born into. Sometimes he reminded her of a little boy, who just wanted to be included instead of scolded, saying the wrong things out of nervousness. But other times, most of the time, she saw calculation in his eye: _if they don't approve of me, then I will make it so they don't like me at all._ He was all extremes, Sir Richard Carlisle.

So tonight, she wore red again. She liked symmetry and it was also a concession. She was already a woman ruined, it would not hurt to remind him of it, so he went quietly out into the night, out of her life, with his demands and bruising grips, reminding him he was only losing damaged goods. She knew she never tried hard enough to make him happy but even if she had, she sometimes thought it would have all gone awry somehow, someway.

"You must see we aren't well suited," she said, her black gloves gesturing gracefully. "We'd never be happy."

"You won't be happy by the time I'm finished with you," he threatened, menacingly pacing, like a lion in cage too small for it, who hadn't been fed for days. She suddenly realized that they were in the smaller of the libraries and quite alone and he was looking at her as if he would like to kill her, simply take his ruddy hands and wrap them around her pale throat and end it. She almost screamed, the cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley, but pride kept her quiet, even as she took a few steps back, knocking aside a table as he loomed over her.

"You know, I wondered after the story with Pamuk, after you sat in my office, how long it would take for you to offer your charms to me. I waited and waited." His face was so close she could see beads of sweat on his forehead. "You took one man into your bed. Why not a second? Why not a fiancé?" Now he did wrap his hand around her neck and squeezed. She could breathe but barely and his hand continued to squeeze. She saw it in his eyes: _I could end you in a second._ "But you did take a second lover, didn't you? But he was someone else's fiancé, wasn't he?"

She shook her head in denial.

Then his other hand snuck up before she anticipated him. He touched her breast, squeezed until it was painful. "That's all I wanted, Mary," he said almost sadly, the little boy again who'd been denied a sweet. "Well, not quite all." He used both hands to tear the front of her dress open; it was an old dress made of delicate silk. He ruined it in an instant so she stood bared in her corset from the waist up. Then she shut her eyes. _Stay cold,_ she thought. _Stay careful,_ she recited. _You can be anywhere. You can be anything. _As he lifted her skirts after undoing his own pants she thought, _oh God, will you not save me from _this_?_ She remembered Matthew whispering with his haunted eyes, "We're cursed, you and I," and for the first time she believed him. Everything hurt, as her back hit the bookshelf. He was rough on purpose. Finally, she did scream; she shrieked, and it was as if this was what he was waiting for, muffling the sound with his mouth. So it was pointless after all, no one could hear her or help her.

When he was finished and let out his final grunt, she slid bonelessly to the floor, her gown ripped open, the hem above her knees. "Will you still publish?" she asked, dazed. She felt the bruises, the scratches, even the blood. But even lying on the floor she refused to give him the satisfaction of actually _seeing _her broken.

He didn't answer, only buttoned his pants, smoothed back his ginger hair, peeking outside the door to see if he could make his getaway without anyone noticing.

Mary lay there, a broken doll, not at all still, but trembling all over.

* * *

><p>"Did you hear something?" Matthew asked Violet, who he'd been speaking to about adapting parts of her will.<p>

"No," but she gripped her stick more tightly in her bony hand. "Where is Mary?"

Matthew smirked. "There is a rumor she's sacking Carlisle tonight. He is missing as well. I can only suppose she found some private place to break the news."

Violet reached for Matthew's arms. "Matthew, listen to me. You and I must find Mary and Sir Richard immediately."

"Sir Richard must face his heartache with a brave face." Matthew replied gamely, inwardly cheered by the night's events. But then frowned because the Dowager Countess had already stood and tugged on the cuff of his jacket.

"Now," she said. "Without alerting anyone else, we must find her."

They met Sir Richard in the hall, putting on his cap and wrapping a scarf around his neck. "Are you leaving us, Sir Richard?" Violet asked. "For good?"

Sir Richard turned from them and without pausing in his retreat. "Oh, I don't know. I think that will depend on a variety of factors. Good Night."

Violet turned away before Sir Richard finished walking down the hall and out the door. "Come, Matthew. We must find Mary. Who knows what havoc Sir Richard has wrought as Mary's parting gift?"

Matthew followed but he did think Cousin Violet was being a bit dramatic, especially when it came to Mary, who always, if nothing else, was the most capable woman he knew. "Surely Sir Richard wouldn't _hurt _Mary?"

"Surely nothing, Matthew. I have lived a long life and known many people in it. If there is one thing I know of Sir Richard's character it is that he is dangerous if crossed."

They found her in the small library. The light of the hall illuminated her foot and a bit of her calf with its ruined stocking. Violet entered first. "Matthew, you must not come in," she commanded. But Matthew had seen that foot, the shoe hanging off the heel, the run in the stocking. It was the leg of a doll that had been thrown in the corner by a child who found something better. He did not listen to Violet's request and even in the dim lighting it was as if Mary's pale skin illuminated her and the scene. It took only a moment to assess the ruined corset, the angry red scratches on her shoulders, and the bruises already forming on her arms. Near the back of her head, there was a small wound that was seeping blood and drying in her hair all at the same.

"Matthew if you will not obey my wishes then I must insist you close the door," Violet demanded in a low tone. "Now." She knelt very slowly to Mary, laying her walking stick down. "Mary," she said, gently but firmly. "Mary."

Mary's eyes fluttered for a moment and then closed as if even that was too much.

"We must call Doctor Clarkson," Matthew stated as he wiped his hand over his mouth. "And the police."

"We will call no one," Violet insisted in a guttural tone. "Her whole life would be ruined."

"But she's hurt...You can see what he done..."

Violet stroked her favorite grandchild's hand, a safe place that had yet to turn black and blue. She wanted to weep but could not. "Matthew, she is hurt but her wounds will not kill her. No, Sir," and the word sounded like a curse in her mouth when she said it, "Sir Richard would not believe in a mercy such as that."

"I will kill him," Matthew said and meant it.

"I want you to," Violet agreed. "But that's not the answer Mary needs. That won't help her."

_But it will help me_, Matthew thought, his fists clenching and unclenching in helplessness.

"Granny?" Mary whispered. She was parched, absolutely parched, and a little cold.

"Yes, Mary. I am here. I am here. Don't worry. It is over." Violet lied to her. It was not over. It was only just beginning.

"I'm cursed, did you know that?" She found out she was crying because she tasted salted tears on her chapped lips. "Matthew told me once and I found out tonight he was right. D'you know?"

Matthew knelt beside Mary and took her hand in his. "I was wrong to say that. You aren't cursed."

"How can you say such a thing now, now when I am the living, breathing Tess of the D'urbervilles?" Her eyes were still closed. She thought she may never open them again and her mind began to clear a little more moment by moment. "You told me I must sack Richard. I did. And then he..." Yes, her head was clearing a great deal. "Cousin Matthew, I think it very inappropriate that you should see me in such a state. I must ask you to leave."

"Mary," Violet urged her to open her eyes but she only squeezed them tighter like a child who believes that shutting your eyes can render you invisible. "I know what we must do. Matthew will carry you up to your room. No one will see you. I will be sure of it. Then...we will see what we can do with your wounds."

"I don't want him near me," she cried petulantly and Matthew cringed. "Don't you see? My god, it was only a kiss and a dance and this is my curse?" She paused, wet her lips. "I'm sorry, please excuse me. I am not myself. May I have a glass of water?"

This, Matthew could do. He held the glass to her lips while she sipped at it. "May I look at...the wound on your head."

"How could examining my head add to the shame I feel? Yes, go ahead," she snapped. The bleeding was sluggish and almost finished. "And I can bloody walk up stairs on my two cursed feet." For a moment she sounded exactly like old Mary but then her voice broke. "The only problem is...the problem is that he tore my dress. Quite violently. It would be unseemly for me to leave this room in such a state." Her eyes were still closed but she'd begun to tremble. "Have Anna bring me a dress. She will dress me. She will walk me upstairs. And then she will undress me."

"I know you are fond of Anna but can we trust Anna's complete discretion in this case?" Violet asked. "I am only thinking of you, Mary."

Mary smiled, and opened her eyes. "Granny, Anna knows all my secrets. One more cannot hurt."

* * *

><p>Six weeks later, the Dowager Countess read from a piece of paper with shaking hands, in the drawing room, surrounded by the entire Crawley family.<p>

_To my family,_

_ Allow me to apologize in advance for the dramatics but I wanted you to all hear the news at the same time. I have left Downton and I will not return. Please believe me, if I could tell you the reason I would. Trust that I will be safe wherever I am going. Trust that this is necessary. I am not being foolish or rash. This is not a silly rebellion or an adventure. I am not eloping. I am not in love. But I must go away all the same. Finally, I must beg one last favor. Please do not badger Granny with questions. She knows no more information than what this letter contains. I only asked her to read it aloud. I take pieces of all of you with me. Please do not look for me._

_Yours, always,_

_Mary_

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><p>Six months later, Cora walked into her mother's house in New York. She'd realized, moments after stepping off the ship, that although in Yorkshire her accent was considered "so american," here people inclined their ear, wondering where she was from. She did not quite fit anywhere, except with her family, with her girls, with Mary.<p>

She hadn't been to the house in New York in years. She didn't know the butler or the carpet by the door. But when he led her to the sitting room, she recognized the woman, all dressed in black, the long line of her neck, the dark hair, staring out the window, out into the city.

"I asked you not to look for me, Mama," Mary said quietly.

"I'd prefer not to have this conversation with your back, Mary," Cora replied evenly.

"Alright." But when Mary turned, both hands on her belly, one above and one below, where surely a baby lived, kicked, and breathed.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Rape is never, ever, ever (and I cannot emphasize this enough) okay. Ever. Ever. **Ever. **At the same time, I can promise you that Richard will get his._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Mary never imagined herself to be a maternal type of person. She had no younger cousins she could remember holding or even touching. She never liked dolls. She liked horses, being outdoors, rolling in the grass until she was scolded to act like a lady. But even then she had the horses. She could pet their pretty noses and feed them carrots behind Lynch's back to her heart's content.

She vaguely remembered Sybil as a baby, but nothing before her youngest sister was already toddling about, reaching for the back of Mary's dress, and following her everywhere. "You mustn't be a nuisance," she scolded Sybil, mimicking something Granny had told her. "We must be ladies." And everywhere Mary went Sybil went too.

Then suddenly Mary was grown up and it was all about marrying Patrick which was all about Downton which was all about providing an heir which, perhaps, should of had her pondering motherhood but the only thought she had on the subject was an overwhelming fear that there would be no boys. Dear God, what if there were no sons? When Matthew came, there were moments before she closed her eyes at night, where she imagined the two of them, with a baby in their laps, with his eyes and her hair but that dream had been so brief she dismissed it. Sir Richard had inspired no maternal images whatsoever. She hadn't even questioned what kind of father he would be, which now seemed like the most important question to ask someone you might marry. But she hadn't asked it of any of them, not really. She hadn't thought it through and no one had explained it to her. Even Mama, marrying Papa, knowing that he didn't love her but needed her money, did she think for a moment: when we have a family what will he be like? Papa was wonderful of course. But what if he hadn't played and laughed and cuddled his three girls?

Mary knew she was pregnant before the doctor in London pronounced her as such. She'd been a little sick in the mornings and she was more tired than usual. She considered confiding in Granny but she couldn't bear to speak of it, not then. The fact was that she was simply on her own now or rather that _they_ were on their own now. She imagined that some people, that most people, would abhor the circumstances of how this child had been conceived. But Mary had a more pragmatic view. Plenty of children were conceived in the beds of loveless marriages, old husbands devirginizing young wives, men ploughing without any thought to the woman who lay beneath him. More than that, there was a deep sense of betrayal on her part. No one had protected her–they only handed her off to one man, and the next, and then the next, as if she was a horse, until one of those men had done the worst. Really it was only a matter of time. If a horse is owned by enough men, at least one would be sure to use a whip.

And she did not know how to protect herself. This baby, her baby, would be protected. Mary did not believe she was particularly good at loving people. But she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she already loved this child.

"Mary!" Cora gasped upon seeing her eldest daughter so obviously with child and with that tilt of the chin, that daring arch of an eyebrow. Was Mary proud of herself and her situation? How could she be?

"Well now you know, but I still can't come back with you. You must understand why, now that you've seen me."

"Mary..." Cora felt behind her for a chair and sat with a very unladylike thump. "Who...How did this happen?"

"Are you asking me if an angel appeared to me and told me that God would place a child in my womb? Will this be a virgin birth?"

"Mary!" Cora hissed. "I do not want jokes. I do not want platitudes. I have been so worried about you and Matthew and I came here..."

"Matthew is here?" Now suddenly, there was fear in Mary's voice. Her shoulders wilted, betraying her confidence. "He can't come here. I won't see him."

"He's checking into a hotel. I wasn't sure what type of reception I would get from Mama after she told me it wasn't ideal to come..."

"She was protecting me. But no, Matthew cannot come here. I won't see him," she repeated.

"Is he...Is he the father?" Cora asked with a trembling voice.

"No, he is not." Mary snapped, and up went her chin and up went that eyebrow. "And that is all I will say on the subject, Mama."

"But Mary how can we not discuss..."

"Mama," Mary interrupted. "You will find me very determined on this subject. This is my baby and I will be very happy to meet him or her when he or she arrives in a few more weeks."

Cora remembered that brief moment when she'd assumed Sybil and Tom would live together unmarried and the shock and the horror in her chest. That was nothing compared to this. "Mary," Cora wet her lips. "You must see, you must know that it is only that I love you."

"I know that you love me, Mama." She rubbed her belly a little. "I know that now more certainly than ever before."

"If you won't come with me..."

"But would you take me, Mama?" Mary asked sadly. "Would you really bring me back to Downton like this? Would Papa let me stay? Would he set up a nursery?" Cora was speechless. She did not have an answer. "I don't want this baby to ever feel...ashamed or any kind of shame for simply existing. He or she did not ask to be born."

"Has the father refused to shoulder responsibility?" Cora asked.

"I told you I would say no more on the subject," Mary stubbornly repeated.

Cora had to change her tactics. "Matthew has been just sick since you left."

Mary laughed."Matthew's been sick much longer than when I left, when he decided to live his life as a dead man after burying Lavinia."

Cora looked at her daughter. "That's very harsh. He cares very deeply for you."

"Oh, Mama," Mary cried out a bit angrily. "Do you have any idea how many "times" Matthew has had _feelings_? Feelings for me. Feelings for Lavinia. Feelings for me again. Feelings for dead Lavinia. And where has that gotten any of us, the women that Matthew Crawley has his "feelings" for? Lavinia is in a grave at Downton and I am here, as you see."

"That's quite a speech." Cora wanted to admonish her daughter but a part of her agreed. She'd watched her daughter twist herself inside out for this man, an honorable man, she believed, but still.

"I'll believe Matthew Crawley and his supposed feelings the day he actually acts on them."

"So if you won't see Matthew and you...can't come home. What can I do?" Cora stood and pressed her hands into Mary's. Tears were in her eyes. "Let me do something."

Mary pressed her lips together. "I'm very proud. I don't want to ask for the thing it is that I need. Grandmother has been very generous but the baby..."

"I'll get you money. No matter what it takes." She held her daughter in her arms, feeling her grandchild kick between them. "You know us Americans," Cora said through tears. "We don't mind talking about money. We love to, you know."

"Mama," Mary whispered. "I'm so sorry for the pain I've caused you, for the disappointment...I feel like I have been the world's biggest disappointment to you but please, please don't be disappointed in this grandchild."

"My darling" Cora put her gloved hand to Mary's cheek. "I love you, both. I won't be disappointed in either of you."

She paused and picked up her bag. "But now I must go and head Matthew off. I'll tell him you weren't here. I'll tell your papa something...Will you write me, somehow? And tell me how you...the two of you are?"

"I promise."

* * *

><p>Two months later Robert handed Cora a letter. "It's from your mother," he said, going through his own mail.<p>

Cora opened it with trembling hands she hid in her lap. Quickly she scanned her mother's normally chatty letters for mention of Mary or the baby. There was none. But at the bottom of the last page, as a postscript, in Mary's hand was written:

_Grace Violet Crawley._

_We are perfectly healthy, perfectly lovely, perfectly happy._

_Yours, MC & GC_

A few weeks later, another letter from her mother. Slipped between her mother's pages was Mary's handwriting.

_Mama,_

_I am so sorry for all the subterfuge but I just feel so protective of Grace. I do not want anyone who knows about her to ever do anything but love her and I can't be sure of Papa's feelings, though I do wish I could see the two of them together. She is simply beautiful, Mama. I don't say this to brag but just so you can imagine my Gracie Girl (my sweet nickname for her) but she is the very image of me, dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. I could wax poetic about her all day long and be very happy. Today my favorite thing about her is her eyelashes, how long and inky, how they flutter open to reveal her eyes. She looks at me like a little owl might, as if she is asking, "Who are you?" and she recognizes me and thinks, "Oh, it's only you," and falls back to sleep safe in my arms. I know I don't sound like myself. But I am happy. I don't think I have ever been so happy or ever loved someone so much. Do you know? Soon it will almost be a year that I've been gone. Sometimes it feels like ten. I feel so far from where I started, Mama. _

_Love, MC & Gracie _

"Cora!" Violet asked from settee. "What is wrong? Why are you crying? Is something the matter with your mother?" Cora shook her head, speechless, her lips pressed together. "Is it Mary? Has she written?"

"I'm not sure if I can share..."

Violet shook her head impatiently. "Believe me Cora, I know much more about Mary's situation than you ever will."

Cora did not know what to do. Mary had asked for her not to tell anyone that would disapprove and Violet surely would. At the same time, it had been Violet's name she'd chosen as the child's middle name and Violet had been the one Mary chose to read her departing letter. Feeling as if she was taking a huge risk, she wordlessly handed the letter to Violet then walked to the doors and enclosed the two of them in the room.

A few weeks later another missive arrived at Violet's home in Mary's hand. It was easier this way. She wrote:

_Dearest Granny and Mama,_

_First, Mama, I am not angry that you confided in Granny. I wanted to tell you, Granny, but I did not want any one to bear a responsibility that is mine alone. Mama, I am sure that Granny has shared the truth of the matter and now you will understand my determination not to speak of it. Gracie is **mine **and mine alone. I love her and when I look at her I only see my darling girl and nothing else, nothing, nothing, nothing else. Have I made myself clear? I don't wish to discuss it any further and I don't think I can make myself plainer. Please, if you love me, and if you love her, you too will think of her as just mine and mine alone, and yours too of course, your granddaughter and great granddaughter too. Her hair is growing in so thick now and she chews very happily on my fingers. Grandmother and I have had a few rows over the issue of a nanny. She insists. I'm sure if I were at Downton you would stand with her, Granny, and perhaps you too, Mama. But I just couldn't bear it if it wasn't me bathing Gracie, feeding Gracie, rocking her to sleep, telling her fairy tales, even changing her nappies! Do you think I am crazy? I am. Crazy in love with the sweetest baby in the entire world. _

_All our love,_

_Mary & Grace_

_Granny and Mama,_

_Grace had her first doctor's appointment today. She is a very modern baby, you know. And she is three months old so she must go see the doctor, just for a check up. I must admit, I wept a little when I realized she is already three months old. Oh, Mama! All those times I blamed your American heritage on your emotional outbursts. I'm realizing it's just part of being a mother, really, letting your heart live outside of yourself in someone else. Everything is as it should be. She is slim and long and beautiful. She likes my lullabies but they keep her awake rather than put her to sleep. She's started to grab for things and makes a fist. I'm still nursing her and she is a hearty eater, I must say. I am tired and sometimes I dream in a silly baby voice but truly I am so happy and so blessed._

And then months later, two photographs arrived, one for Violet and one for Cora. On the back, in Mary's hand she'd written _Grace Violet Crawley, 9 months. _

"What are you two cooing over?" Robert asked as he briskly walked into the sitting room and to the couch where both women sat close to one another, practically aflutter with giggles. The sight was such a rare one that he was more than curious over what had caught their fancy.

"Nothing!" Cora cried, slipping the photograph in between the cushions. Violet held hers discreetly in her hand. "Nothing at all, my dear. How are you this morning?"

"What's that you're hiding in the cushion there?" he asked.

"Nothing, darling!" she chirped.

"I can see it there, sticking out," Robert insisted.

"Oh really?" Cora warbled.

"Cora, really, you were not meant for the stage. I've never seen a worse actress." And with that Violet handed Robert the photograph. "That is your granddaughter and she is a happy and a healthy and a loved child and if I hear you say anything against her or her mother or anything other than a positively glowing response, I will never speak to you again and I feel very serious about this."

"But who is...who is the father?"

"Robert," Violet snapped. "I warned you. That question is unacceptable. Now give me that photograph back. It is very dear to me. Then I am going. I will not speak to you while you are behaving so unsympathetically..."

"I'm not behaving unsympathetically!" he retorted. "I was just handed the photograph of a baby I know nothing of. I'm trying to understand."

"Then understand this, my son, you may ask Cora any number of questions. But you may not approach the question of how that baby came to be made. Or the father for that matter. I must insist upon this."

"Really, Mama, you expect me..."

"No, no," Violet interrupted. "I am completely determined on this. You must swear to me you will not even approach those questions. You must swear to me on your father's grave."

"Well then what am I supposed to ask. You expect me..."

"I expect you," Violet snapped, "to ask: is Mary well? Is the baby healthy? How old is she? What is her name? Was the birth difficult? What is she like? Where is she? When can she come home? And I am ashamed at you, simply ashamed that you would think of any questions before those."

There was silence in the room. Violet had never chastised her son in that matter in his entire life. But, Violet felt, very strongly, that not enough had been done for Mary, not to break the entail, not to ensure her happiness, not to protect her from Carlisle. Now, she would be protected. And the baby. By God, the baby.

"Alright," Robert replied quietly. "I agree to your terms."

"You must swear. You must swear on..."

"I swear on Papa's grave."

"Now give me my photograph of my beautiful great granddaughter. I am going."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Matthew, Mary, and Baby Grace are all over the next chapter. Promise.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Get ready for some cuteness!

* * *

><p>Chapter Three<p>

"Here, darling. Let's button this coat up just a bit more," Mary chirped as she set Grace down on on the park bench to fix the top brass button of her daughter's coat, a miniature really of the coat that Mary wore. It was April but it had been a cool spring.

"Yes," Grace said. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" She'd just recently turned eighteen months old and was rapidly learning new, simple words. Every time she did, Mary clapped her hands together and gave a little cheer so now Grace, ever the mimic of her mother, had taken to cheering for herself. "Yes!" she repeated and then clapped her hands and cheered.

"Would you like a cracker?" Mary asked her daughter. She'd never spoken to Gracie in that sickly baby talk. Grace gleefully said, "Yes!" clapped her hands and cheered, "Yay!" Mary handed Gracie the animal cracker and Grace studied it for a moment in her tiny palm. She held it up to her mother for Mary to inspect. "That's a lion," Mary told her and Grace looked up at her as if Mary was sharing the greatest wisdom of the world. "Gracie, what do lions say?"

Grace held her hands up, an attempt at claws, so adorable but hardly fearsome. "Ra," she said ferociously. Then cheered for herself. "That's right–roar!" Lady Mary Crawley said, holding up her own hands as claws. Grace was very good at first syllables but they were definitely still working on second. For example, both "bottle" and "ball" were "ba" and yet somehow, Mary (who was "Ma") could easily distinguish between the two words her daughter spoke.

Gracie had taken the cracker back from Mary and chewed on it thoughtfully, her little mouth crunching away. "Mo'," she asked her mother. "More, please," Mary corrected, though Grace had yet to accomplish the p sound. "Here you go, Gracie Girl." The process was repeated, Grace taking the animal cracker in her hand and then holding it up to her mother. "That's a monkey," Mary explained. "What do monkeys say?"

"Ooh!" Grace crowed triumphantly her mouth so overly round as she enunciated the syllable. Mary just had to kiss that rounded mouth. "That's right. Monkeys do say Ooh ooh ah ahh!"

"Mary?"

She heard her name, she heard the voice that spoke it. But it was impossible because she was sitting on a bench in Central Park in New York City, with her daughter chewing on animal crackers and that voice, that person was farther than an ocean or a lifetime away.

"Lady Mary Crawley?" he repeated a little less certainly.

So she had no choice but to turn in her seat so he could see her face, all while keeping a firm grip on her daughter. He looked the same and different. She knew the explanation simple but her brain was working sluggishly, Matthew's face in her eye, her daughter's hand in her own. He looked much like he had when he first arrived at Downton, the gray had gone from around his haunted eyes, his smile came easily again. "I can't believe it's you!" he said and walked closer to her, around the bend of the path so now Grace was revealed.

Mary took Gracie into her arms, who'd managed to spit half of the monkey cracker into her hand and was examining the spongey mess with determination, and stood to greet Matthew. "Cousin Matthew. What a strange place to see you after all this time!" She smiled but the whole time she was terrified, terrified that he would ask something in front of Gracie, say something in front of Gracie. Mary had no shame but she was still as protective as ever when it came to her daughter.

He squinted at her for a moment, as if he expected more. That was Matthew for you, expecting her to lay out her whole sordid tale of where she'd been the last two and a half years as if they were as close as ever. But then he looked down at Gracie. "And who is this?" he asked cheerfully.

"This is Grace," she told Matthew. "Grace, this is our Cousin Matthew. What do we say to him?" Matthew wasn't at all surprised to find that this was Mary's child. She was her spitting image.

Grace looked up from her decomposed cookie. The face she gave him was pure Mary, the exact look she gave him when he first arrived at Downton; it was priceless really, he had to grin. She must have decided he met her approval because she finally said, "Hullo," in a breathy whisper, batting her eyelashes at him, and cuddling against her mother's cheek. It was a much warmer welcome than her mother had given him at first.

"Hello," he replied with a smile and very seriously took her hand in his.

"Oh!" Mary started. "She's got..."

"A soggy cookie in her hand?" But he smiled.

"Yes, I'm afraid you are correct."

"Well I can't say that when I decided to take a walk through the park that I ever thought I would find you with such a pretty baby, making the sounds of a monkey." His blue eyes laughed at her as they once had, at the very beginning, sitting on a park bench. How young they'd been. How stupid, Mary thought.

Mary blushed while Gracie pursed her lips and made a puckering sound. "She's blowing you a kiss. It's her new trick, you see. You'll have to blow one back for her to stop." And he did.

"Now we've both appeared ridiculous, me making monkey noises and you blowing kisses to a baby," Mary joked but she was already looking around, making sure she had everything in her bag and that the pram was ready for their get away. "Well, we really must be going. So good to see you, Matthew."

"Oh, you have plans?" he asked, disappointed. "I would have liked to catch up."

"Well, not plans so much as a baby that needs a nap and a nappy to change."

He laughed. "I can't imagine Lady Mary changing a nappy. Perhaps I could accompany you ladies home and see for myself?"

"See me change a nappy?" Mary asked. She felt completely out of sorts. She wanted to be away from him and alone with Grace.

"And to catch up. Yes, I'd like that."

"Alright," she agreed, her mouth turned down a little on each side. But when she looked at her daughter she was all smiles again, the biggest grin he'd ever seen on Mary. "Alright, Gracie Girl. It's time to go walking."

"Me?" Gracie asked.

"No, darling, I'm going to put you into the pram. It's too far for you to walk."

"She's very independent...like her mother," Matthew remarked and Mary raised one eyebrow. "I could carry her, if it's far...and if she'd prefer it over the pram..." his sentence drowned away with the look in Mary's eye. No, she thought, I don't need you marching into my life, playing hero and entrancing my daughter. But Gracie was quick and she'd heard the word carry and she was already reaching her arms out to Matthew her little fists opening and closing, "Me!" she cried happily. "Me. Me. Me."

"You," Matthew replied and laughed before sobering and giving Mary an apologetic shrug as he took the little girl in his arms. Mary pushed the pram along, silently directing them.

"Gracie," he asked the little girl, since the mother did not seem so keen on him. "How old are you?" Very carefully, biting her tiny lip, she put her fist out in front of her and unfurled one finger, each movement requiring a great deal of concentration. "One," Matthew verbalized for her.

"Yay!" Gracie clapped.

Mary smiled at her daughter. "She's eighteen months. But I haven't quite figured out how to teach her how to communicate that."

Gracie went off in a series of syllables and Matthew tried to keep up. "Don't worry," Mary assured him. "She's between baby talk and learning real words so she's just babbling away just now, telling you some story, I imagine." She smiled and again it was for her daughter.

Matthew held the little girl and kept walking, every now and then nodding his head, or saying, "Oh yes?" to the baby who went on and on talking but all the while he was doing the math. Eighteen months. Plus nine months. January of 1920. His heart dropped out of his chest and he would have gasped or cursed but he was carrying a baby in his arms, a lovely baby who looked just like Mary who was telling him a story.

Grace pointed at Mary. "Ma," and then she took Matthew's chin in her little hands to make sure he was paying attention.

"Gracie," Mary admonished. "That's not polite."

Gracie's hands fell away but she looked into Matthew's face and again pointed to Mary. "Ma," she repeated.

"Yes," Matthew agreed. "Ma!"

The baby clapped her hands as if she had discovered the solution to world peace.

* * *

><p>Eventually they arrived at very distinguished looking brownstone. "It's my grandmother's but she's spending more and more time on the Cape. Cape Cod." She corrected herself as if he didn't know. It could have been just a conversation they were having when he first showed up, thinking him a simpleton, a solicitor from Manchester. Now, it amused him rather than irritated him. "Ah right," he said and winked at the baby, who'd begun to curl, sweetly into his shoulder.<p>

"Here you can take the baby and I can take the..." He started to say but she'd already carried the pram up the short flight of stairs. "How do you do that when you're all by yourself?"

She smiled at him, maybe for the first time, truly. "Practice."

She took keys from her pocket and unlocked the door and the simple domestic action was so strange to watch because he'd never seen her do anything like that in all the time he'd known her. "Hello, Mrs. Larson. We've brought an old friend with us. A cousin from England," Mary called out to some woman apparently who clanged something against a pot in the kitchen in response. "She cooks for us and stays here. Grandmother didn't want Grace and I on our own. She helps with the housework."

"But not with the baby," Matthew stated.

"No," and she smiled softly when he would have expected her to become cold and defensive. "No, that is my singular pleasure. I have to take her upstairs and change her and put her down for her nap."

Upon hearing the word nap, Gracie lifted her head from where it laid sleepily. "No, no, no, no, no." She cried. "No. Me."

Mary just smiled and went to take the baby from Matthew's arms but he shifted away. "You promised to demonstrate your skill set in the motherhood department with nappies and naps."

"No, no, no, no!" Gracie cried.

"Shh, Shh," Mathew told her. "It will be alright." She looked at him to see if he was being honest, tears were in her eyes and her lower lip trembled. He thought maybe, with the way that little lip trembled, he might have fallen in love with her. "Lead the way," he told Mary.

The nursery was lavender and white, simple, but not plain. He watched Mary very take the baby out of his arms. "Hello, Gracie Girl. Let's slip into something more comfortable. Shall we? Cousin Matthew won't mind your pajamas."

Grace blew Matthew a kiss and Matthew blew one back.

"She's a shameless flirt. I'm sorry," Mary said as she laid the baby back on the changing table and began to undo the buttons.

"She's beautiful," Matthew replied. And for a moment, Mary's fingers stilled on the buttons. Matthew could do math very well she was sure. And Matthew had seen...So he knew. The fact that he would call Gracie beautiful, knowing all that, well it was simply what Mary hoped and prayed for every night. She continued on with the buttons, talking to the baby. "Shall we tell Matthew what we did today, darling?" She slipped the coat out from under the baby and then undid the buttons on the baby's dress. "We fed bread to the..." She paused, watching her girl concentrate. "Duh," Gracie responded. "Exactly!" Mary cheered. "We fed some bread to the ducks. And what do the duckies say?" She turned towards Mathew, her hand on Gracie's stomach holding her in place. "We haven't quite gotten the hang of the q sound so maybe you could help Gracie out. Cousin Matthew, what do the ducks say?" Grace strained her head to look for him in the rocking chair. It was a peace offering and also maybe a bit of a pay back for commenting on her monkey impression. "Quack quack," Mathew said in his best duck voice. Grace clapped her hands for him. "Yay!"

"She approves," Mary commented, slipping the dress off and then the undershirt and her shoes and stockings so the baby lay naked but for her nappy. "Gracie?" Mary asked. "Can you show Cousin Matthew where your belly button is?" Gracie pointed somewhere in the general area of her stomach and Matthew clapped his hands and cried, "Yay!"

"You're a fast learner," Mary told him and smiled before leaning forward to blow a raspberry on the baby's tummy who shrieked in laughter. "Oh wait, Gracie, I think...I must...yes, one more time..." and she did it again while the baby laughed and laughed and laughed as if this was the greatest game in all the world. "You'll have to excuse our impropriety, Cousin Matthew, but we have a little routine."

She made quick work of the nappy and had the baby in pajamas in two shakes. "It seems you're quite a pro."

Mary lifted the baby, closed her eyes for a moment as the baby leaned and curled into her, her face in her neck, one of her hands playing with her hair. "I've had a lot of practice. I was the opposite of a professional at first." She laughed and the baby hummed in her throat. "I'm sorry but you're in our chair."

"Excuse me, ladies," he said all politeness and she expected him to go down stairs and wait for her but he simply moved to the floor.

Mary sat in the rocking chair and the baby who had cried at the idea of a nap curved into her, one hand grabbing onto Mary's blouse. Mary hummed. "What shall we talk about now, darling? Shall we talk about the princess who was very brave and very smart who slayed the dragon all by herself?" Gracie made a sound, perhaps acquiescence but Mary just leaned back in the chair, her own eyes closed, and rocked, and rocked, and rocked even after the baby breathed evenly. She stood slowly, raising her eyebrows at Matthew not to make a sound, and laid the baby in the crib. Mary touched Grace's hair for a moment before holding a finger to her lips and gesturing for Matthew to exit with her. Mary eased the door shut as quietly as possible.

"Well there you have it. You've seen it all now."

"You're very good with her," Matthew commented as they walked down the stairs.

"I'm her mother," Mary replied.

"No, but, what I mean is..."

"Why, Matthew, you're tongue tied."

He'd stepped in it now. "I just didn't expect you to be so good at it. So perfect at it. I hope that doesn't offend you."

She smiled. "No, it doesn't offend me. I didn't expect to be much good at either. But I was determined. She's the best thing that has ever happened to me."

He could have asked her then but he didn't. There was something in her eye, as if it was a test. And besides, he could not deny that the little girl was a joy.

"Well I'm sure you have to be on your way, Cousin Matthew..." she said very politely scooting him out.

"Can I come back?" he blurted out. "I mean to say, may I call on you and Gracie tomorrow?"

Mary paused at the door. She briefly closed her eyes and he thought she would say no. "But of course," she surprised him. "It's not everyday that another Crawley is in New York."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Please, please let me know what you think! Reviews and Critique definitely motivate me to work more quickly. :)<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: I literally thought it impossible to get another chapter up this quickly but you were all so encouraging. Honestly, this is the first fanfiction I've ever written and so any encouragement or even honestly, critique, is most welcome. I love hearing what people are thinking about this story because honestly a few of you gave me a few ideas...We shall see._

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><p>Chapter Four<p>

Matthew spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly. If you asked him later where he'd gone, he wouldn't of had the faintest idea. He had too much to think about, to digest. Ironic really, when he considered that for all his claims of "wanting to catch up," they hadn't caught up at all. She had no idea what he had been doing the past two and a half years and frankly she didn't seem overly concerned about the matter. He wasn't offended. Hardly, considering she was very busy, very actively mothering a darling little girl. And yet, though they hadn't shared any confidences he felt as if he had a mountain of information to sift through.

On that night in January of 1920, he thought, seeing her on the floor, so broken and trembling with her closed eyes, that there couldn't be anything more horrible than seeing Mary this way. He'd been to war, for God's sake. He'd held men as they died, watched man fall in front of them. For months, he'd thought he'd never walk again, let alone do much else. Still, none of those things had centered around Mary. She was always there, of course, sometimes center stage, sometimes in the peripheral. He'd meant it when he said to her, "I'm so glad we're friends again." Throughout it all, going to war, coming home, injuries, everything, she'd been there, an anchor, a rock, a touchstone, much like the little dog he carried even in his suitcase now. He couldn't imagine her as anything other than strong until he found her on the floor.

That night in January, he'd ached for her. He didn't know what to do or say. He wanted to take her in his arms and rock her in his arms, as if she were a child. But then she'd made it very clear that she didn't want to be touched, least of all by him. Her words had shamed him, how he'd called her cursed, how he'd very much placed the blame for all the mistakes with Lavinia at the feet of both his and Mary's feet, as if they shared them, when they were his alone. That his own words could be used to help drive home Sir Richard's vicious, violent, disgusting actions pained Matthew a great deal. And what could he say? _I never thought, I never imagined that anything could ever happen to you. To anyone else but not to you._

She wouldn't see him after that. Not ever. If he came for dinner, they were seated apart. He had a strong feeling that Cousin Violet was her ally in this. He had to speak to her, he had to apologize. He wanted to know that she was alright and then felt stupid for thinking it because of course she wasn't alright. He wanted to plot revenge against Carlise. But she was always out of reach, her eyes shuttered, her body turned away from him. Then one night he came to dinner and Violet read Mary's letter.

He had not listened to Mary's entreaties not to badger Granny. He could not even honor her wishes in that. He'd gone to the Dowager Countess several times, begging, pleading to tell him where she was. Violet could not even pity him, she'd given all her sympathy to Mary. "I can't tell you where she is," Violet snapped finally one day. "Because I do not know."

"Then we must find her! Perhaps she has gone to Sybil or her family in America..." he pleaded.

"Matthew," she hissed. "Do you need me to produce the letter for you? Do you need to see it with your own eyes and read the words with your own lips to understand her wishes? She does not want to be found."

"We could convince her to come back..." he offered pitifully.

"No," Violet stated. "You could not. Weren't you listening? She does not want to be here!"

_Oh Matthew, what am I always telling you? You must pay no attention to the things I say._

Finally, on his last visit to Cousin Violet, he raised his voice to her, "If you won't tell me where she is..."

Violet slumped back in her chair and covered her eyes. For the first time her voice was soft. He'd never heard the tone from her before. "My dear boy, I am telling you the truth. I do not know where she is."

"Truly?" he asked. "Then we must try to find her."

"Matthew, do you honestly believe that any feelings you have for her, any attachment or affection you feel for her, is anything compared to what I feel for Mary? Any horror you feel over what you witnessed that night is nothing compared to what I feel. I held her when she was first born. I watched her ride her first pony. I was there at her first ball. I fought for her, over the entail. I saw her love for you and the way she nearly killed herself trying to trap it inside her. Do you understand I am not prone to emotional speeches or sentimentality?" Violet asked him. "But you must understand. You must get it through that thick head of yours undoubtably inherited by your stubborn mother. Sir Richard gave Mary no choice."

"I know that," Matthew insisted.

"So we must allow Mary to make her own choices now," Violet said as kindly as she could, though her patience was wearing thin at this point. She didn't relish talking about feelings all the time. "She chooses to go away. She chooses to stay away. Will you deny her that right?"

Mathew stopped then. He sat. He put his face in his hands. "Then what must we do to Sir Richard? Something must be done. You must see that."

"You are so young," Violet complained. "I would like to kill him myself. I would like to light a fire beneath his boots so he burned slowly. But we will do nothing. Again, it is Mary we must think of. To attack Sir Richard would only result in Sir Richard attacking Mary."

"But the situation is impossible!" Matthew cried.

"Welcome to the world women have been living in for centuries," Violet quipped. "A man does something inappropriate, something you didn't ask for, and you can't speak of it, because if you did, then no other "honorable man" would want you ever again. We have been at the mercy of your sex since the beginning of time." (If only Sybil could have heard her...)

"I want her," Matthew insisted.

"But she doesn't want you," Violet stated. "And besides, I'm not entirely sure you do want her. I've heard it before." Matthew left soon after that, angrier, sorrier, than he had been when he came.

His grief was messy–Lavinia dead and Mary alive somewhere he could not reach. He felt foolish and stupid and dramatic for all that he'd said to Mary at the funeral because...Lavinia was dead and Mary was **alive.** How could he have missed such vital of a point.

_Oh, Matthew! You always make everything so black and white!_

He went to Cora next, sure that she would be a softer touch. "Don't you see we must find her?" he repeated his appeals to a more sympathetic audience.

Cora sighed. A part of her was sure Matthew had something to do with Mary leaving. How could he not with all that angst between them constantly? "I agree. But why is this so important to you?"

He couldn't answer. "Please write to your mother and to Sybil and see...tell her I will come to her if..."

In the end, it was Mary's Grandmother's reply, so short, so evasive, with no mention of Mary when that had been the sole purpose of Cora's original letter that convinced Cora something was amiss. Her mother even queerly suggested that she might visit England instead of Cora coming to New York. _It is not the best time for you to come here to me. Why don't I come to you? _In the end it was the mystery that caught Cora's curiosity and Matthew insisted on traveling with her. "I know that if I could only speak with her..." he said again and again.

Robert wanted nothing to do with the whole situation. In his opinion, two of his daughters had deserted him. Once rejected, he would not reach out again.

Violet quite literally looked down her nose at them. "Mark my words, this is mistake." And once, when Matthew again insisted that "if he could only speak to her" Violet stood as quickly as her age allowed. "This is ridiculous. Why is it that even _now _ no one cares to _listen _ to Mary? She has made her wishes perfectly clear."

* * *

><p>The next day, on the streets of New York, Matthew bought a bouquet of a dozen small white daisies with friendly yellow centers. When that seemed inadequate, he bought three dozen and the very happy vendor wrapped them in brown paper for him.<p>

He rang the bell grinning, unsurprised to find Mary opening it herself with Gracie on her hip, but she looked surprised to see him. "Matthew! What are you doing here?"

His smile faltered for a moment. "I thought yesterday we agreed that I..."

The baby was reaching out her little fists to him but Mary did not move out of the doorway. "But I never even gave you a time. I thought you understood that it was only..."

"That you were only being polite?" Matthew asked. "No, I'm afraid I didn't understand that." It was clear she truly was not expecting him. She wore a blouse and skirt but her feet were bare and her hair only braided.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" Gracie chanted, while Mary continued to stand in the doorway.

"Mary," Matthew said a bit exasperated. "We were friends once."

"Were we?" she replied cooly, raising her eyebrow at him, but nonetheless opening the door wide enough for him to enter. "I'm afraid we're in a bit of disarray at the moment. I was about to give Gracie her snack."

"Mmm," Gracie said.

"By all means, continue," he said politely, his earlier enthusiasm gone. It was just like when they first met; he felt two steps behind her, so confused by her deference, the anger beneath the cool, calm surface that was Lady Mary.

He followed Mary to a small nook off the kitchen and away from the formal dining room. It held a table and two chairs and a high chair. "This is Gracie's very special chair," Mary chirped for the benefit of the baby. "And she is going to sit in it like a very big girl and not cry at all."

Gracie peeked over her mother's shoulder at Matthew, as if seeking his opinion. "Yes, it seems to be a _wonderful _chair for a very good girl." Gracie looked at him a bit skeptically but didn't put up that much of a fuss as Mary strapped her in.

"What are we having?" Matthew asked.

"We are having some apple sauce and a bit of a pear," Mary held the jar up for the baby to see. "Yummy!"

But Gracie wasn't looking at her, she was looking at the Matthew. "Da!" she said pointing.

"She's trying to say _that_," Mary quickly explained.

Matthew was a bit disappointed to see that the baby was in fact pointing to the flowers and not at him. He chided himself for being so foolish, what did he think, that if Gracie looked at him in some fatherly light Mary may warm up to him somehow? "They're actually for her," Matthew said, now, especially now with Mary peering at him. "I saw them and they looked so cheerful and I thought..." He paused and shoved the flowers at Gracie's mother. "Mary, for God's sake..."

Everything about her softened, her eyes, her lips, her shoulders. "You bought Gracie her first bouquet of flowers," she said softly, petting the little white daisies. "Look Gracie, your first flowers. See how pretty? See how cheerful?" She went around the corner and found vase to fill with water.

"I didn't get them to make you sad," Matthew said.

"Oh!" Mary smiled. "It's not you. It's just that...well, there are so many firsts going on around here lately–first steps, first words..."

"First flowers," Matthew supplied.

"Yes, well I can't help it but sometimes it just makes me a little sad to see all these little firsts because she's growing up so fast and I..." she stopped and took a breath. "Nevermind." And to Gracie she said, "Are we ready for apple sauce?"

So the three of them sat around the little table while the baby ate the apple sauce, only fussing a little when she insisted, "Me!" and tried to take the spoon from Mary. "Sometimes, recently, I let her do it herself," Mary confided to Matthew. "But only when bath time is right after." And then Mary placed the slices of pear she'd cut up in front of the baby which she nibbled on.

It was all so strange and domestic to sit here with a baby between them, Mary going hot and cold towards him, but all sweetness towards Grace. It was much like the day before, all about engaging the baby and nothing personal or important between the two of them.

Gracie very graciously handed a piece of pear to Matthew and he pretended to bite at her fingers around the fruit. She thought this a very fine game and laughed and laughed, feeding him piece after piece. Mary sat, quietly, cutting more pear, every now and then looking between Matthew and the baby and their shared laughter. "You're very good with her," Mary commented.

"Are you surprised?" he asked her kindly, continuing to take pieces of pear from Grace, and sneaking a few into her mouth too.

"No, not surprised just..."

"Just?" he asked.

"You're the only one from...the family...who has met her in person." She met his eye. "I wondered what it would be like." Suddenly he understood what she was not saying. _You're the only one who knows exactly how Gracie came to be that's met her in person._

"She's really wonderful," Matthew replied seriously. "A lot less prickly than her mother too."

Mary finally smiled for him and not the baby. "And why are you in New York?" she asked.

"Mo'," Gracie pleaded, lifting her hand to his mouth with a sticky pear and Matthew ate it.

"Wanderlust, I suppose," he explained, continuing to pretend to bite the baby's hand. "I have some friends from the Army who came over here, to live. So to see them. I've been lonely," he admitted, his own words appalling him, the fact that Mary did not comment on them only embarrassing him more. He babbled, "Wanted a bit of excitement. I thought New York might be the place to go, have a holiday. I only was here with your mother once but that was hardly..." He stopped and looked at her. "You were here. She did see you."

"Yes," Mary admitted, using a rag to wipe down the baby's hands. "I was here. She did see me."

"Then why would she tell me that you weren't?" he asked, sitting back in his chair, while Mary readied a bottle filled with water for the baby.

She met his eye. "Because I asked her to lie to you."

"But why?" Matthew blurted.

"Because I didn't want to see you," she said simply, without feeling. "Alright, up we go, my darling," and she lifted the baby out of the chair and into her arms, walking into the sitting room, Matthew following behind, intent on answers. He was momentarily stunned by the picture the two of them made, Mary's dark ahead against her daughter's, the baby so content in her mother's arms.

"Why didn't you want to see me?" he asked and sat across from her.

She began to sway a bit with the baby in her arms. "I'm not going to argue or quarrel with you in front of Gracie."

"But we aren't arguing or quarreling," he said.

"Yes, but if I answer your question and if we keep talking about this, we will. That's how we are, you and I."

_We're cursed, you and I._

His words seemed to hang in the air between them.

"Why didn't you want to see me?" he asked again.

Her eyes were on the baby, a soft smile on her face as Grace's eyes began to close. "There were many reasons."

"You're avoiding the question," he accused.

"No, I'm avoiding an argument in front of _my _ daughter." She stood swayed a bit more. "Let me put her in the crib," she said quietly and walked up the stairs. "I'll be back in a moment."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: So I, as a reader, love when stories are updated often. I honestly will try to do the best I can here. I am very eager for Matthew and Mary to have this conversation and I hope you are too. Please let me know your thoughts.<em>


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: So I kind of lied...without meaning to. I couldn't just leave poor Matthew and Mary hanging like that. So I had to keep writing and writing and writing and all of a sudden this chapter was finished. I thought about holding back but I guess I don't have much self control. Plus I wanted you to see how their conversation went. It's a bit of a bumpy ride._

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><p>Chapter Five<p>

She wasn't long. She came back down the stairs in her bare feet, a few pieces of hair falling out of the braid down her back. He realized he'd never seen her hair down before or her feet without stockings and shoes or boots. _Who are you,_ he wondered, _and why is it that it's you I keep coming back to. _

She sat in her same place, folded her hands in her lap. "Thank you for waiting," she said very politely. Her shoulders were back, her chin up. She wasn't relaxed in the slightest; this was the farthest thing from a visit between old friends, or even distant cousins. But he could remember kissing her, sitting so close and then moving closer and closer at that small table until he was sure that he had to kiss her, that she wanted to, and they moved into one another, her hands in his hair, on his neck, his, thrillingly on her waist, her hips. He could remember dancing with her alone in a room, his hand torturously betraying any good intentions he had, pulling her closer and closer until there was nothing between them but their clothes not even air, and then again kissing her thinking that if it was the last time he kissed her...

"Why didn't you want to see me?" And apparently she did know him better than he knew himself because his voice was raised, not loud enough to wake the baby, but loud enough for them both to know that he was angry and that they were going to quarrel, exactly as she predicted.

"I wasn't lying when I said before that there were many reasons," she paused, weighing her words. "I really don't know where to start."

"Oh, it's so complicated then? Your dislike of me? Your reasons for lying to me?" he replied sarcastically, leaning forward, though they were still a room apart. "There's just so much to it?"

"Yes," she said. "It is. And I don't know why you're surprised when everything, and Matthew, I mean _everything _has been complicated between us from the very start."

"Why didn't you want to see me?" he asked again, through his teeth.

"I was tired," she said calmly, pushing back the little hairs near her face.

"You were tired?" he repeated, slowly, as if she was teaching him a new language.

"Yes!" she snapped and for the first time she finally was actually angry instead of just simmering. "I was so tired of us, Matthew. I was tired of the the angst and the longing glances and quiet conversations in the corner of the room. I was tired of wanting you and you wanting me but neither one of us doing anything about it. I was tired of your dramatics, your constancy to a dead girl that frankly, you didn't pay nearly as much attention to while she was alive. I was tired of both your heroics and your cowardice. I was tired of you faulting me for the fact that you wanted me. And yes, I was very, very tired of being put in the box of Lady Mary who could bear any slight, any insult, any heartbreak."

He literally couldn't find his voice for several minutes after her tirade stopped. "That's quite a speech."

One side of her mouth quirked up and she leaned back against the couch as if she really was tired, even in just rehashing it, let alone living it. "You know that's exactly what Mama said when she came here to see me, entreating me to see you, and I told her a version of the same thing I've just told you."

"You've hated me, no really despised me, for a quite a long time then," he said, voice hoarse.

"Oh, Matthew," she whispered, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling. His own words, spoken so long ago, were out of her mouth before she could stop them. "I never would...I never could despise you."

She waited a few moments, minutes really before continuing. "But it wasn't just me anymore, Matthew. There was Gracie to think of and I had to think of her. I had to because I...knew what it felt like not to be thought of and I never wanted her to feel that way."

"You could have told me," he pleaded, as if they could go back in time. "I would have..."

"Proposed?" she laughed but it wasn't a happy laugh and quite suddenly she was crying over something she hadn't cried over in such a long time. "I thought you might, knowing you as well as I do. And I thought, how ironic, how funny really," her voice broke and he winced, "that all I had to do to finally marry the man I loved was get myself raped."

Matthew stood quickly, turning his back to her, sticking his hands in his pockets. She knew him so well and yet, with his face hidden, she could not even guess his expression or his thoughts. "I didn't want that for me. I didn't want that for the baby," Mary whispered. "And I didn't want it for you either."

"What about what I wanted?"

She wanted to go to him then, wrap her arms around his middle, and press her cheek to his back. It was such a strange impulse considering since she'd seen him yesterday she'd wanted him gone. "But you see Matthew," she continued to whisper. One must whisper when standing on sacred ground. "But you see, we could have kept going around you and I, back and forth."

"But there was Grace," he said. He was so still, so controlled, his back, still to her, so straight. And it made her ache because she knew what it cost a person to be that still. She knew exactly. She stood, even took a few steps towards him.

"Yes," she said. "There was Grace."

She wanted to touch him but couldn't remember how, not just because it was Matthew but because it had been so long since she'd touched, really touched, anyone other than Grace. "I really wanted to avoid having this conversation. Ever."

He laughed a little and hung his head. "Well I can't imagine why."

"But," and she took another step closer to him. There was only a meter between them now unbeknownst to Matthew with his back turned. "But maybe it's better this way."

"Better?"

"Maybe it's like lancing a wound, finally getting everything out, finally saying it. We both made such mistakes, Matthew, both of us."

"Me more than you, obviously," he said without irony and quite suddenly turned around, surprised to see her so close.

"No," she insisted, her voice sure. "No, because I never told you that you were hurting me. So how could you know? I was very proud." She paused, her lip trembling much as her daughter's had the day before when Matthew had wondered if it was possible to fall in love with a baby he'd just met. "And then I was humbled beyond belief, laying there in my corset and ruined dress, a bloody mess, just ruined..."

He moved to her in one instant, his hands on her face, his thumbs brushing at tears. "No," he said. Just no.

She was trembling. She was anything other than still when she brought her hands to the crooks of his bent elbows, and held on. They stood like that, holding one another, but just barely, for a very long time.

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><p><em>Author's Note: Please, I'm really asking your opinion on this. Do you think Mary was justified in allsome/none of what she was saying? Was it really better to get it all out on the open? Where do they go from here?_


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: I continued to be surprised at the pace I'm writing this story. It's not me; it's really just the characters and the fact that I literally just can't *stop* writing it. Anything else I've been writing has been pushed aside. Ooopsie? But oh my gosh, you guys have been great and supportive and honestly oh so helpful. A lot of you (maybe all?) thought Mary was totally justified in what she said to Matthew last chapter and that made me feel great AS A FAN because I love me some Matthew and I love me some Mary but when she turned to him and said, "So you've forgiven me then?" I was pretty much like what the eff, Julian (which reminds me, these characters belong to him, not to me...except for Gracie) how can Mary even be ASKING Matthew if he has forgiven her when he has been such a loser to her all season (except I still loved him all season). And then when Matthew was all magnanimous about letting the Pamuk incident go, I kind of wanted to be like, you know what Mary, maybe he should ask you to be magnanimous about the time that he called you CURSED...Please keep in mind, while all this was happening, I was beyond thrilled and joyfully celebrating the fact that M & M were finally together. If it seems weird that I could feel all that at once then...I don't know what to tell you._

_Also, a bunch of you pointed out the fact that that convo could have never happened at Downton...which really got me thinking...and I think plays out a bit more in this chapter...GRAZIE for your help. That's why I adore comments. Now I have to give a few shout outs to reviews that literally made me laugh out loud. URMYSTICK (mad props for the username by the way...perhaps one of my fave lines) wrote: "where do they go from here? with Grace napping for about 20 minutes longer,  
>i'd say the counter top!" Hilarious. Cracking me up. I'll definitely keep the counter top in mind for future chapters and when you see it know that you inspired it! To (another BAM username) thank you so much for a lot of your insights. Very much appreciated it. Honestly every single review makes my day, I am not even kidding, and I know writer's are always like, "I'll update faster if you review" and I always thought that was kind of lame but it is SO true, at least for me. Definitely motivates. Alright this was a novel in and of itself. Eek. Thank you so much, for real. xx<em>

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><p>Chapter Six<p>

Their grip on one another felt very fragile, very loose. Their hands didn't clutch or grab. Matthew wanted to say _I love you, I've always loved you, and I always will _but he knew it was not the time for those words, that her even touching him, so lightly he could barely feel it through his jacket and shirt, was such a momentous step for her. So instead when he finally spoke, he whispered hoarsely, "I'm sorry," her eyes fluttered open to his. "I'm so sorry. For all of it. Everything you said...it was true."

"I'm sorry too," and her voice wobbled. "But Matthew, I don't want us to stay sorry. That's just more of the merry go round we've been on for years, hurting each other, being sorry, staying away, but always feeling...something for one another."

"All those stupid longing glances you mentioned," he said and she laughed, leaning her forehead against his.

"Yes, those."

Suddenly he was laughing too, their foreheads bumping. "It was agony, wasn't it?"

"Horrible," she agreed, laughing some more.

"Why didn't we just do something about it? Why didn't we just have this conversation..."

"You mean this quarrel," she interrupted.

He smiled. "Alright, the quarrel we just did, God, years ago, even at the Garden Party or a million times after..."

She shrugged and his hands moved from her face, to her neck, to her shoulders. "We're both very stubborn. And at least for me, I could never be sure, be completely sure of your feelings for me. I remember once..." she stopped.

"No go on," he urged. "Don't stop now. It all has to be said."

"I remember Richard," she paused, as if the name tasted strange in her mouth, "asking me," she swallowed, "'Once and for all, if I was in love with you, and I said, oh God," she shook her head and had to smile. "'Of course not, would I ever admit to loving a man who preferred someone else over me?"

"Oh, Mary," he said and then he did lean forward to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Yes, that statement about sums up that phase of my life," she replied flippantly. But she leaned into him, and his arms came all the way around her now, and she surprised herself and wrapped her own around his waist.

"You have to know, you must know," he whispered in her ear, "that there's never been anyone, that there couldn't be anyone I preferred over you. Not ever." When she didn't say anything else, he continued. "More than preferred, Mary. Loved."

She shook her head, spoke into his chest. "I'm out of practice loving anyone other than Grace. I don't even know if I remember how." But she didn't pull away either.

"Well then, maybe, we could practice," he suggested though it terrified him to say it, to go out on a limb. It was the reason why he never did with her. What if he was rejected? And now he knew it was the same for her. What if she was rejected? "Together."

"I..." she had to stop and turn her cheek to his chest, one of her hands coming to rest over his heart. "I could try. But..." and now she did pull away, just enough so she could look at his face. "What are your expectations of this? I don't know if I can..."

"I just want to be with you," he brushed the hair off her face. "And with Grace." She smiled and he could see in her eyes that she wanted to just say, oh yes, of course.

But she stepped away. "But you have to go back to Downton. And I...I don't know if I ever can."

"I'll stay here, in New York, for as long as it takes."

"For as long as what takes?" she asked him.

"For as long as it takes for you to believe me when I say that this time there will be no longing glances, that I'll be here, really here, for you and for Grace." He smiled, a grin, like a little boy, and reached for her hand. "For as long as it takes for you to practice loving me again...but differently this time."

She wet her lips, curled her fingers around his. "But you'll still have to go back sometime, to Downton. What if I can never go back?"

"Is that what you want," he asked her seriously, "to never go back? You loved the place once."

"Sometimes," she said conspiratorially. "I imagine Gracie, playing on the grounds, bare feet in the grass, putting her on her first pony. Watching Mama with her and Granny. Papa too. I remember how sweet Carson was to me, how I would ride on his back. In many way, it was a perfect childhood."

"But..." he offered.

"But everything changed when..." she couldn't finish the sentence _I was raped in the library_. "I don't know how I would be received either because I could never tell, I never would tell about what happened in the library because of the way people might look at Grace and because of the way they would look at me. But if I don't tell, they'll," she swallowed. "You know what they'll call her. How they'll treat her. Everyone, even people who don't know her. I don't want that for her. I couldn't bear it. Here it's different. I don't even go by _Lady _Mary here."

"You're such a good mother," he said, smiling at her. "Such a good one. I'm so proud of you. I really am." She looked surprised that this was his reaction. "I don't think anyone has ever said that to you enough: I am very proud of you, Mary. And everything that's been said today, everything that needed to be said, would never have been said at Downton."

"You're right. Because O'Brien would have been ease dropping on everything we said. And Carson would never let us alone together anyway," smiling she took his other hand. "So...maybe you and I, we, and Grace," she looked up at him questioningly before continuing. "Could practice, being like _this _with one another so that it doesn't matter..."

"Where we are," he finished. He would have kissed her but he could also see that she was conflicted.

"I'm very happy," she insisted. "But I'm afraid you have to also know that...well besides being out of practice when it comes to _loving _anyone other than Grace, I also well..." She stood up straighter and was Lady Mary again, speaking about something she didn't wish to but was necessary. "Well, it's just that you should probably know that I don't know what I'll be like when it comes to _that_ part of our relationship." Her face softened and she moved closer to him, alluring in her bare feet, and undone hair. "I know, once, it was always...I want to be able to be like that with you, again, to kiss you, and touch..." she couldn't go on; she was blushing furiously. "But well, I've had some rather bad experiences with that. What with Richard...And Pamuk..."

"Yes, I can imagine that a man dying on top of you would give you pause on the subject," he said and suddenly they were both laughing, just gasping for breath, touching again, arms around each other, practically holding one another up to keep from falling over.

"But do you understand what I am, very poorly, trying to explain?" she asked when they were finally finished.

"Yes," he replied. "I just want to be with you, spend time with you, and Gracie too. And whatever you're comfortable with, however it happens. We'll just practice." He took her chin in his hand. "And you'll tell me, honestly. You won't hide things or feelings. If something is...difficult...just tell me," he asked, a bit desperately.

Gracie began to cry, waking from her nap. "Alright," she said. "Now I have to..." and she gestured towards the stairs.

"Can I come, practice being with the two of you?" he asked. She smiled, holding his hand loosely as they walked up the stairs.

Gracie was standing in her crib when they entered, stamping her feet, and just howling as if her mother had deserted her for hours. Mary picked her up, cradled her against her chest, while the baby rubbed her eyes. "Mama is right here, Gracie. I'm right here. Shh." To Matthew, she said, "She wakes fussy a lot of the time. It's not all animal sounds and clapping hands, you know."

"Are you trying to run me off?" Matthew asked, smiling.

"No, just practicing being honest." She pressed kisses to the side of Gracie's face. "It's so strange but I just love when she wakes up from a nap, and I'm holding her, and the way she smells. Don't laugh at me," she warned, "But I love it when her little sweaty body is up against mine."

"That's quite a hairstyle, Lady Grace, has right now." The baby's hair, was in fact, standing up at odd angles, curls matted. Mary ignored Matthew's use of _lady _because the fact was Gracie wasn't a Lady. Perhaps he meant it as a nickname of sorts.

"Did you hear that Gracie," Mary whispered. "Matthew doesn't like the way you've done your hair. Where ever is Anna when we need her?"

Grace lifted her head from her mother's breast and peered at Matthew. Then she reached out her arms to him. "Oh!" Mary cried. "She's a sweaty mess and I haven't changed her nappy."

Matthew had already taken Gracie out of her arms. "But you said that you liked baby sweat."

"But you might not," Mary laughed.

"Well let's see," he replied as the baby curled into him and rubbed at her eyes some more.

"She wakes like me, you see. Like waking up is the worst thing in the world. At Downton, they used to make fun of me, that I was always the last one up..."

"I know," Matthew said as he sat in the rocking chair and tried out rocking the baby. "I was shocked to see you at the train station that once."

"Oh," Mary said weakly. "That."

"I think we should be able to talk about our past, Mary, without feeling badly about it. Like you were saying about staying sorry. I don't want to stay sorry."

"You're right," she said and sat at his feet, put her hand on his knee. "But we'll have to practice, you know."

They smiled at one another, Gracie idly playing with the buttons of his shirt. "This baby sweat you spoke of," Matthew said, and pressed a kiss to Gracie's sweaty, messy curls. "It is rather appealing."

She laughed but went somber quickly. "It's strange to see you, like this, with her...I'm not used to it."

"So what shall we do about it, Gracie Girl?" Matthew asked the baby.

"I know, I know," Mary rolled her eyes. "We'll practice."

"Yes," Gracie whispered. "Mo'."

Mary laughed and took the baby from Matthew so she could be changed. Matthew found himself a bit disappointed. "Shall we ask Matthew to dinner, Gracie?" Mary spoke to the baby. Grace glanced at Matthew. "I think we shall. But I must warn you, Matthew, Mrs. Larson's out for the night and so it will be very humble. Very, very, very, very humble. Since I'll be fixing it."

It was a testament to how much he loved her that he very bravely said, "Of course!"

She laughed at him. She knew exactly what he was thinking. "It will be edible at least. I promise."

Matthew looked at Gracie, who was now naked but for her nappy. "Will it?" he asked dryly.

"Yes!" Grace exclaimed, clapping her hands against her bare belly, laughing at the hollow sound it made.

"And as for ringing the dressing gong to change for dinner," Mary said sarcastically. "Gracie will be eating in her pajamas."

"Well then I had better conform to the dress code." He took off his jacket, swung it over the rocking chair, and unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them off. Then he reached down and took off his shoes and socks as well.

"Matthew!"

"What?" he asked. The baby was blowing bubbles contented.

"You're in your bare feet!" she said as if it was obvious.

"But so are you." He wiggled his toes at her. Grace thought this very hilarious. "Mo'," she asked and he obliged.

"Oh!" she cried. "I didn't even think or notice. And my hair..."

He grinned at her. "Because you didn't think I would actually come." She turned back to the baby to keep from smiling. "So where is this Mrs. Larsen I've heard about but never seen?"

"Well," Mary began, a spark in her eye as she began to fit the baby into the pajamas. "She spends a lot of time...out."

"But you said your Grandmother hired her to cook and live here and clean. So you wouldn't be alone."

"I'm not alone," and Mary blew a raspberry on the baby's belly before buttoning her up. "What Grandmother doesn't know, doesn't hurt her. Mrs. Larson helps me, of course. But Mrs. Larson is a bit of a bohemian. Speaking of, I must write Granny and tell her that Mrs. Larson bought me a pair of trousers as a present." Her eyes were dancing. "But many nights Mrs. Larson doesn't exactly _stay_ with us. You see, she isn't a real Mrs. and she has," Mary covered the baby's ears as if Gracie could understand, "a lover."

"You should also add that to your letter to Cousin Violet," Matthew suggested. He lifted the baby before Mary could, patting her on the back. He began to walk out of the room and down the stairs. "So trousers? Hmm."

"What?" she asked defensively. "Is this like the time you told me not to cut my hair?"

At the bottom of the stairs, he turned and appraised her. "You never did cut your hair."

"No," she said softly.

"I think I might like seeing you in trousers," he said walking with the baby to the kitchen. "I think it would be interesting." The way he said interesting gave it a completely different connotation and she blushed. "What?" he asked innocently. "I'm just practicing being honest with one another, darling." She rolled her eyes at him but truthfully her heart was rolling over in her chest.

"Alright, darling," she replied, before pinching him on his side.

"Oh, Gracie," Matthew said as he sat at the table with the baby in his lap. "The stories I could tell you about your mother."

She looked up at him, pursing her lips and blowing him a kiss. He blew one back.

"Me," she said and wiggled out of his grasp to the floor. "Me, Me, Me." She walked a little way away from Matthew and looked back at Matthew over her shoulder as if to say, "Aren't you coming?"

"Gracie," Mary called from the kitchen. "Can you twirl for Mama?"

The baby smiled and sure enough, very unsteadily, she twirled, showing off her fetching pajamas. Then she blew Matthew another kiss. "You're going to be trouble someday," he told Gracie who had walked back towards him and held her arms up to him. "You." She said and he picked her up.

"We're having tomato soup and grilled cheese and you've never heard of it but it's considered a very comforting combination here. And Matthew," she called, "Don't let Gracie boss you around. She'll take advantage of you, you know."

"I wouldn't mind that," he commented. "She really is..."

"Me!" Grace yelled and he put her down again.

"The word you're looking for is something. She really is something." She laughed. "And I would mind. I want her to be well behaved. Still a child, of course. Who plays and misbehaves and laughs. And I will never, ever tell her to _act like a lady _until she is at least thirty when I will consider the possibility of her marrying and leaving me. But one thing I can't stand is bossiness."

"Yes, I just don't know where she gets it," Matthew replied sarcastically, their eyes sparking as they looked at one another.

"Where's the baby?" she asked suddenly. "In the nursery, she can have her run of the place but down here, she can get into Grandmother's things...There's edges and the fire place." She started to rush off but Matthew stopped her with a gentle hand at her hip.

"I'll go," he said. "I'm new at this but I'll learn." He went around the corner.

Mary buttered the bread and heated the soup (safe since it was made by Mrs. Larsen). _I'm new at this but I'll learn? _What did that mean? Suddenly she replayed all the other things they'd talked about today, how many times he'd mentioned Gracie. Not just mentioned but was concerned over. _Oh God, _she thought, _I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can share her or trust someone else with my girl. _

As she stirred the soup, she nodded her head: practice.

Later after dinner, they played with Gracie so she would be tired enough for sleep. Matthew chased her around the nursery, where there was plenty of open space. She'd run from him then slow, waiting to be caught, and he would grab her and throw her up in the air and Gracie would squeal and squeal. When he put her down again, she would ask, very politely, "Mo'" and the game would begin again, Matthew chasing and Gracie letting herself be caught. Mary mostly watched them. She didn't know what to feel seeing them together, seeing the joy in Gracie's face as she looked down at Matthew. But then Gracie was tugging at her skirt. "Ma," she pleaded and Mary got down on the floor and made very impressive ferocious noises that had Gracie dancing around on her two feet, a little jig, and then Mary would make a grab for Gracie and catch her in her arms and press tens of kisses to her face until she wiggled away and then they began again. Once, after Mary grabbed for the baby, she dodged her mother's hands and went to hide behind Matthew, grabbing onto his pants.

"Where's Gracie gone?" Mary asked. "I can't find her at all. Gracie! Gracie!" she called. "Have you seen her, Matthew?"

"No, I haven't," he replied, turning in a circle, while Gracie followed behind him. "Where could she have gone? Is she in her crib?" He walked over to the crib with Gracie still clinging to the back of his pants. "No."

"Is she behind the chair?" Mary asked.

"No, I don't think she is."

Gracie jumped in front of him and shouted, "Me!" as loudly as she could, holding up her arms, not to Mary but to Matthew. "Oh, there you are! We'd thought we lost you."

Mary got up from the floor. It was all so confusing for. Her life, up until two days ago, had been extremely simple, not easy, caring for Gracie certainly wasn't easy, but she didn't have to think about it. Her whole world was Gracie and she was Gracie's whole world. Now here was Matthew and he wasn't just saying things; he was doing things. Isn't that what she'd told her mother so long ago: _I'll believe Matthew and his supposed feelings the day he actually acts on them. _Here he was holding her daughter and he was talking about practicing...what? Being a family? It scared her, not just the risk of her own heart but for Gracie as well.

"You said something about a bath," Matthew mentioned, holding the baby in his arms, the two of them, the best of friends, grinning at her. "How do we go about that?"

"You...want to give her a bath?" Mary asked uncertainly.

"No, I want us to give her a bath, with you doing most of the work and me watching because the closest thing I've washed to a baby is a dog."

Mary made herself smile. "Alright, but fair warning. Gracie becomes a little bit of a heathen during bath time."

"So did Isis when I had to wash her." And then it wasn't so very hard for Mary to go to the both of them and wrap her arms around the two of them, laughing. Gracie puckered her lips at Mary and Mary dutifully kissed them. Then Mary watched as Gracie took Matthew's chin in her hands and puckered her lips again. He hesitated for only a moment, glancing at Mary, who gave him no signal as whether to stop or go, and then pressed his lips to Gracie's. Gracie turned back to her mother. "Mo'," she asked. "Oh if you insist," Mary replied warmly and kissed the baby again. Grace turned to Matthew and pursed her lips again. He kissed her. They went back an forth like that at least six times before Mary laughed, "Okay, this is the last time," and both Matthew and Mary kissed her. "No," Gracie said.

"Her new favorite word," Mary rolled her eyes and took the baby out of Matthew's arms.

"No!" the baby said again. "Ma," she said, holding one hand to her cheek. Then, she gestured to Matthew. "You!" she demanded. "Mo'." Gracie reached across the space between them and tugged on Matthew's shirt, pulling him back into the three way embrace they left. "Ma. You. Mo'." Perhaps if Mary wasn't blushing, the flush running even down her neck, Matthew wouldn't have done it. Instead, he put his hand on the cheek on the Grace wasn't touching and kissed Mary on the mouth, as chastely as he'd done with Grace. Gracie clapped. "Yay! Mo'." And again, Matthew kissed Mary on the mouth, quickly and innocently. "Alright," Mary said hoarsely. "Bath time then bed."

Apparently bath time included Mary shedding Grace's clothing on the floor of the nursery, including the nappy. Grace got up quickly and began to run around the room in circles, squealing like a banshee. Matthew put his head in hands and laughed. Mary shrugged, "I don't know what it is. The girl just loves to be naked." She laughed too. "I probably shouldn't allow it. Granny would be horrified."

"I don't know, Cousin Violet could surprise you. I can just see her holding that stick, looking bemused saying something like, 'It's a fact that babies love to be naked' and then maybe turning to my mother and saying, 'Did they include _that_ in your medical books?" Matthew's impression of Violet was so spot on that Mary couldn't catch her breath for laughing. All the while, the baby ran and ran and ran. If anyone would have walked in on them, they surely would have considered them crazy.

The bath was an interesting affair as well. Mary filled the tub with only three inches of warm water and set the baby in it who began to splash immediately. "Watch out," she warned Matthew. And then apparently there was some baby shampoo that Mary rubbed into baby's hair, creating a lot of suds. "Ask Matthew what he thinks of your hair now, darling," Mary cooed.

Gracie pursed her lips and Matthew blew her a kiss.

"Alright, Gracie Girl, can you lean back for Mama, just a little bit," and Gracie bravely tried, with Mary doing most of the work supporting her back and neck. "And you Matthew, you take that glass there and fill it."

He'd been content to sit and watch the two of them, more than content. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Fill the glass," she commanded. "Now come sit here by me. And you very gently pour it over her head."

He looked alarmed. "But won't the soap get in her eyes?"

"Not if you do it correctly," she replied. But then managed to lean the slippery baby back with one hand and place the other on her forehead. "You won't get it in her eyes."

"But how do you know? For sure?" Matthew panicked.

Mary bit her lip. "Matthew, Gracie's attention span is about one minute long at the most. It's now or never."

So Captain Crawley, war hero, carefully poured the water onto the baby's head. "Mo'," Gracie sighed.

"She's right actually," Mary agreed. "You need to do it about three times."

"Three times?" he asked horrified.

Mary nodded, tongue in her cheek. "Three times. Don't worry. Can't you see it's relaxed her?"

"Alright," he agreed gamely and did his duty.

"All done," Mary cried, unplugging the tub and lifting the baby into her toweled embrace in one movement.

"I'm sweating," Matthew said. "I'm actually sweating."

Mary laughed and rubbed the towel over Gracie's head. "Well, if you must know I _have _gotten it in her eyes and she's lived to tell about it. It just takes, well," she smiled, "practice."

"Now we put her to bed?" Matthew asked. "Because she's relaxed."

The _we _worried her a bit but he was just so serious about it all, as if he was going to take an exam on this. "Yes." Back at the changing table, Mary put the baby in another pair of pajamas.

"It's just like being at Downton with all these wardrobe changes," Matthew teased.

"Oh you don't even know," Mary said seriously. "When she was an infant and she would just spit up everywhere, we went through quite a bit more."

"They just spit up everywhere?" Matthew asked, trying to hide the horror from his voice.

"Well a two month old can hardly say, please excuse me, I don't feel well and make a quick exit to the bathroom."

"Did she ever spit up _on _you?" Matthew asked.

"Only once, twice, or a hundred times," Mary laughed. She handed the baby to Matthew in the rocking chair, with her heart in her throat. "Can you hold her? Just for a second? While I go get the bottle of milk."

Mary made the bottle and made her way back up the stairs. She heard Matthew whispering very seriously to Gracie: "I really think you are the prettiest baby I've ever seen. Of course, you look just like Mama. And I think, also that you are the smartest baby I've ever met too...And apparently the sleepiest."

Mary entered the room, smiling at the way her daughter's eyes were beginning to close. "Here," Mary said and she meant for Matthew to hand her the baby so she could rock Gracie to sleep but he just _took _the bottle _from _her and started feeding it to Gracie who closed her eyes and suckled.

"She'll only take a little," Mary said weakly.

"A nightcap," Matthew whispered but he wasn't looking at Mary who was bravely trying to keep from grabbing the baby back from him. His eyes were all for Grace and she fought sleep as long as she could, blinking up at him in assurance that yes, he was still there, and when she saw that he was in fact, right there, she closed her eyes for good and was asleep.

"I can..." Mary started but Matthew was already standing up slowly, moving towards the crib, pressing a kiss to her now dry hair, and laying her down. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and with his hand on Mary's elbow, left the room.

When they got to the bottom of the stairs he saw Mary's face, "Are you crying?"

"No," she stated as tears fell from her eyes.

"It looks as if perhaps you are," he said gently. "Have I done something to upset you?"

"It's only...It's only that tonight was the first time since she was born that I haven't rocked her to sleep myself." She shook her head at Matthew when he started to apologize. "No, no. It's like the flowers. It's not bad. You've done nothing wrong. She looks at you..." Mary's voice broke. "There's never been a man here, around her, ever. And she looks at you all the time. And I'm so afraid that..."

"Mary," Matthew said very seriously. He put a finger on her chin, mimicking Grace. "I'm going to go back to my hotel now. And then tomorrow, I'm going to come back here. And then the day after and the day after and the day after."

She shook her head. "You don't know that."

"I do know," he said as he shrugged on his jacket. "Just like you were talking about the merry go round we were on before...I know it's stopped."

"But how do you know?" she cried, almost desperately. "How can you? We've been on it so many times."

"For the same reason you gave for getting off it. There is Grace to think of now." She sniffled some more. "And before you go twisting that in your head thinking I'm here out of obligation or duty. Let me just tell you this. I love you. I've always loved you. And I know that you love me and that you've always loved me. But we were young and we were stupid and we didn't understand. But now there's Grace and we've grown up and we're off the merry go around."

She sniffled even more at that, wiping tears from her eyes. "Oh come here, Your collar is all twisted and you look absolutely ridiculous." She fixed it for him, her hands lingering there as long as she dared. And then she leaned forward, in her bare feat, her hair curling all around her head from the humidity of the bath, and pressed her lips to his.

It was so strange to kiss him again and to kiss him with hope instead of desperation. She leaned closer to him, moving her hands from his collar so they could wrap around his neck. She could tell he was being so careful with her, in light of their earlier conversation, he lifted his hands to touch and dropped them again. And though he kissed her back, even his kiss was careful. All those things made her not want to be careful at all, made her feel completely safe, until she'd pressed herself all the way against him, taken his lip into her mouth, to lick and suck on it. She hummed in her throat, feeling alive in a way she simply hadn't for _years_, like she was coming back to life. "I'm comfortable," she whispered between nibbling on his lips.

His arms came around her then, he pushed her, gently back against the front door. He pulled her lower lip into his mouth and sucked on it until she literally moaned and then he bit it gently between his teeth and then soothed spot by running his tongue over it. They were pressed completely together; she could feel him, heavy against her thigh, and she knew that he wanted her and more than that she knew that she wanted him and that was miraculous to her! Before she knew what she was doing she was lifting one her legs to wrap around his waist, and he was sliding his hand, god his hands, all along it, creating the most delicious friction between her leg and her skirt and then his hands were so low on her back that she wasn't quite sure it was her back anymore at all and she didn't care. Not at all. "Mary," he groaned against her neck, pulling the skin there into her mouth and she knew what he meant, that they had to stop but that he didn't want to, that he couldn't just keep going on like this. "Just..." and then she'd lifted her other leg too so they were hooked around his waist and he was pressing himself into her even more. "Just one more minute," she begged him. "Just...two more minutes." His hands were still at her back, pulling her even closer, and then they were sliding up her sides, his thumbs just barely brushing her breasts. "Mary," he said again, biting her ear, his lips coming back to her lips, their mouths opening for one another. Then, he was kissing her a bit more gently, his lips slowing and lingering, and finally just short little kisses one, right after another, until she said, "Okay. Okay," her breath coming out in shudders. Her legs were still around his waist but there was a little more space between them, the door holding her up. He was trembling she realized. _I made him tremble. _

He was looking at her, waiting to see what she would say, his mouth completely swollen and she thought _I did that too. _She smiled at him, sliding her hands into his hair and then to his cheeks. "You _never _kissed me like that at Downton."

He grinned and she remembered she loved a smiling Matthew and she thought _I've made him smile. We've made each other smile. _"Well you never kissed me like that at Downton either."

"I don't think I've kissed anybody like that at Downton or anywhere," she admitted then blushed. "I don't want you to go but..I don't know if I..."

He gently took her legs off of his hips though it was practically torture not to have her _there _and ran his hands down her arms. "There's nothing wrong with going slow."

"That's slow?" she asked, but she was smiling against his mouth. "Then I guess we'll move slowly." But when she said it, opening the door for him, her eyebrow was arched wickedly.

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><p><em>Author's Note: So I bet y'all were reading that thinking blah blah blah this is so PG (I'm looking at you, URMYSTICK) and then bam. Here is the thing. My original plan was going to have Mary be very skittish when it came to anything sexual. I mean, it makes sense, right? Considering her history. But then I was reading your comments and I had this epiphany that my original thoughts of there be an intense attraction between the two of them (duh) and Mary fighting it because she was scared were obvious and I don't dig obvious. THEN I realized is that with Richard and even with Pamuk she was given very little AKA none sexual agency or control (obviously none with Ricardo and if you go back to the Pamuk scene she said no about a million times before he convinced her to let him do what he wanted by threatening that if she screamed for help she would be ruined anyway). So what Mary needs is to feel *safe* and to feel like she has control to stop or go. Besides it's been a long time coming for Matthew and Mary. Let's be real. <em>

_So what do you think? Agree or disagree with my longest author's note of all time? What about the actual chapter? Do we believe Matthew? Can we? Can Mary "share" Grace? Should she? Remember no promises in terms of engagement or marriage have been made? And what about this whole Downton issue unresolved? He's the heir; he has to go back. And...will Mary be able to? How?_


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: I have to thank ATudorRose for her suggestions and thoughts and that's with me giving her really broad, general problems with this chapter. Basically, something crazy happened in this chapter that was definitely not supposed to happen and she got my head on straight and I rewrote half of it. Thank yoooooou! And I'm sure everyone else will thank you too. Also, in last chapter, I tried to give double scotch single malt a shout out and failed to actually type her user name. So sorry! I've really been appreciating your reviews, very thought provoking. To concerns that M and M and G will need to face the "real world" of downton, it's completely true and it will happen. Please, my love for Maggie Smith is beyond. I couldn't leave out plenty of her! A for the Grandmother in NY to be played by Shirley Maclaine next season, I'm inclined not to reveal her just because I have no idea what she will be like next season. But what do you all think? Please enjoy! I enjoy all of you. And who know? With enough support and motivation, you may see another chapter today._

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><p>Chapter Seven<p>

Matthew rang the bell at around ten o'clock. He couldn't seem to wait any longer to be with them again and though they hadn't set a time, somehow he thought he would receive a different welcome this morning, he thought while grinning. But Mary didn't answer the door. A short woman, wearing trousers of course, and a tight fitted blouse, opened it. She had to have been about his mother's age but her hair was jet black and cut razor short at her chin. "Hello," she said in a gravelly voice. "You must be Matthew. You can go right on up. They're upstairs." Something in her eyes twinkled but nonetheless he walked right in and upstairs. But they weren't in the nursery. He even went so far in as to peek into the crib but though the room was full of sun, no baby slept there. What could Mrs. Larsen have meant when he said "they're upstairs?" Then he remembered Mary mentioning that Mrs. Larsen was quite the bohemian and hesitated only for a moment before searching out the other rooms. Mary's was, unsurprisingly, closest to the nursery. It struck him as particularly simple, with cream walls and cream bedding on an antique bed the color of espresso.

On that bed, lay two Sleeping Beauties and he couldn't help but walk closer, though obviously it wasn't proper, to get a better look. At the same time, a little voice in his head was muttering something about no one being here to know whether it was proper or not and also that the goodbye _against _the door rather than by it last night wasn't quite proper either. The baby was in the middle of the bed, in only a nappy it looked like, but covered in a thick knit blanket the color of raspberries. Mounds of pillows had been piled on one side of her, to keep from the edge, though as far as he'd witnessed, Gracie preferred to sleep on her stomach with her bum in the air without moving at all. While the pillows guarded the right side of the bed, Mary guarded the left and she too was sleeping. The very _interesting _part of all this was that Mary lay atop the covers, in a _robe, _with hair still wet and curling from the bath she must have taken before she'd fallen asleep with Grace. One long gorgeous leg was revealed above the knee, the slit in the robe having opened. She slept on her side, turned towards and close to the baby, her cheek resting on her hands, like a child, but the front of the robe gaped, not enough for him to see anything he shouldn't but definitely so that right now, as Mary slept and breathed evenly, he was seeing more of her skin than he ever had before.

He sighed, his eyes on the ceiling as he cursed Mrs. Larsen and her "just go right on up." Then he walked to the other side of the bed, the _safe _side of the bed, with pillows instead of the woman who'd been the object of his fantasies for years. Gracie was adorable, her face turned so he could see it now, her thumb in her mouth, her hair curling sweetly around his face. He could tell from Mary's worried and furtive glances between he and Grace recently that she had questions for him, questions that she wasn't sure if she had a right to ask yet, questions he only had some of the answers to. How would it all work? How could it? He only knew that it _had _to. What he loved, what made him happy, besides the two girls asleep on the bed, was that here in New York, all the rules of Downton were far away and somehow it all seemed simpler. He toed off his shoes and set his jacket on one of the dressers then one by one removed the pillows that guarded Gracie, laying down in their place. He sighed, crossed his feet at the ankles and thought for a moment how wonderful, how delicious it would be if this was what life was like all the time. When he leaned over and gave the baby a kiss on the forehead, and she groggily opened her eyes to see him, curving into his side on his arm, her face buried near his armpit, he only felt more determined to make the dream of what was in this bed, a reality.

Mary woke in degrees, itching her nose with the back of her hand, eyes still closed, but then suddenly sitting up when she didn't feel the warmth of the baby next to her. She might of had a heart attack in the time in took her eyes to track the spot in the center where Gracie had been to where she now lay in Matthew's arms, the baby blanket not covering the baby as well as she would have liked. She sighed, walked over, and inched the blanket up, while the two of them went on sleeping. She saw he'd taken the liberty of taking off his jacket and his shoes and sighed again. Oh, Mrs. Larsen, you are so very different than Mrs. Hughes.

She looked down at her daughter in Matthew's arms, how even in sleep he cradled her gently, how comfortable her baby girl was. If someone walked into this room now and saw the two of them, there would be no question that they were father and daughter and that Matthew was the type of father who would nap with his daughter (not all men would).

Then she looked down at herself and realized she was in her robe! It had been such a bad night last night with Gracie. She'd woken up countless times which was unusual in and of itself but every time Mary had gone to her, she could do nothing to soothe her. She went through the list all mothers have before a child can communicate their own needs: are you wet? are you hungry? are you too cold? are you too hot? do you want this doggy, the one that always soothes you? or this blanket that smells of lavender? The answer to all of these questions was no. No, Grace seemed to say as she howled, you have not yet shown me the one thing I want. And poor Mary, over tired and frustrated, couldn't help but think: I know exactly what or rather who you're looking for. It's the man with the blue eyes who rocked you to sleep, the last thing you saw before you went off to dreamland and now you're awake and he's not here and you're devastated.

In the middle of the night, the whole thing had seemed, to Mary at least, to be a rather obvious metaphor defending all the reservations she had about whatever _this _was between Matthew and Mary and Matthew and Gracie. As she rocked and swayed a very angry baby through the hours of the night, standing, sitting, rocking, she wondered that if this was Gracie's reaction of two days of Matthew's constant attention, what would it be like after a week? Or a month? Or six? And that what would be her response when he left?

Even after the short morning nap, her head felt foggy as she gathered her clothing, including socks and shoes this time, as well as hair pins, (really what was the point of all this armor, the man was laying in her bed asleep with her daughter in his arms) and carried it all into the bathroom since her room had been commandeered by the heir apparent. Oh, he could make her so angry at times. Still, she wasn't completely stupid when it came to her own emotional maturity. She did tend to become angry when it came to defending her heart in anyway.

When she returned, they were still asleep, breaths matching. Though Mary knew that eventually a day (far, far, far, far, far) away would come when a man would usurp her in her daughter's affections she had never imagined that her Gracie Girl would be eighteen months old and that the man would be Matthew Crawley. Irritated, she sat as far away from the two of them (the kidnapper and the deserter) as she could on the bed and began to read.

When Matthew woke, he had no idea how long he'd been asleep but unlike Mary, due to his years in the Army, he woke swiftly and completely, immediately aware that he was holding a baby in the crook of one arm. He shifted his head a little and saw Mary dressed, hair done, shoes on (on the bed? really?) reading.

"What are you reading?" he asked in a husky whisper, voice unused from sleep, not wanting to wake Gracie.

"Matthew!" she hissed back in a whisper. "You're in my bedroom. You're in my _bed_!"

"Mrs. Larson told me to come right up," he defended back in a whisper.

In a sarcastic whisper back, she asked, "And did Mrs. Larsen tell you to take off your shoes and jacket and lay down in bed with me and _my_ baby?"

It bothered him, her use of the possessive, when the little girl was content in his arms but it appeared, despite all good intentions as he'd walked over this morning, they were in the middle of a whispered argument with a baby between them.

"Well, no, Mary, she didn't," Matthew whispered and tried for a joke. "But I did leave the door open and we do have a chaperone." He gestured with his eyes towards Gracie.

"I can't do this with you!" Mary hissed and snapped her book shut without thinking which of course woke the baby.

Before he could even think to process let alone ask what the bloody hell she was talking about, Gracie was crying and he was bringing her all the way on top of his chest, to lay her head against his heart while he whispered, "Shhh, Shhhh. It's alright, Gracie. It's alright. Shhh."

"If you get up and walk with her..." Mary began to suggest.

But Matthew glared at her in such a contrary way, clearly believing he knew what he was doing. Hah! The man was terrified of giving a baby a bath. But then Gracie was mewing against his chest, rubbing her cheek, against his shirt, reaching her fingers up to touch his face. Mary was just about to snap about the blanket but before she could, Matthew re-situated it so that it covered her.

"I don't know why you're acting jealous," he whispered looking up at Mary since she was sitting up, "when Gracie completely adores you."

She sighed and leaned back against the pillows she'd replaced. "I'm not jealous. I'm cranky. We had a very bad night."

"What do you mean?" he asked, and reached out one of his hands towards the middle of the bed.

Mary didn't know whether to take it or not. She just wasn't used to sharing the weight of any troubles she had. She'd never been good at it and she'd certainly gotten worse at it in the last three years. In the end though, she took his hand and he squeezed hers in encouragement. "We were up all night. An hour after you left she woke and she was crying so hard, her sad cry–she has different types, you know, and so I did what I normally did. I checked to see if she was wet. I tried to feed her. I put more clothes on her. I took some off. I rocked her. I stood with her. I offered her favorite stuffed dog. Nothing would please her. We were up all night."

"Oh, Darling," he said to Mary, and he did appear to be rather compassionate. "I wish I could have been here to help you."

She turned her head away so he couldn't see her face. "I don't need help. I've been doing it all by myself for awhile now."

"I'm not saying you can't do it, Mary. You know I think that you're a wonderful mother. The best, honestly, the best I've ever seen..."

She gave him a wan smile. "Sybil is pretty good too, I hear, from letters and the like."

"I know you can do it. I just want to be able to help in some way."

Her head snapped to look at him now, peering at his face. "In what way?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand the question."

"In what way do you want to help? As this man who just comes in and out of her life, who puts her to sleep at night but then isn't there when she wakes in the middle of it?"

"Mary, I thought I was clear. Why is it that we're always misunderstanding each other? I want to marry you and be a father to Gracie and any other children we might have." And then he tugged at her hand until she moved across the bed, to lay beneath his arm on his shoulder, the baby on his chest. "I want to be like this, exactly like this, all the time."

Gracie finally noticed her mother. "Ma," she babbled happily.

It was simple nervousness that had her saying it, to delay answering, under her breath so only Matthew could hear. "Oh so you remember me, do you? The woman who gave birth to you completely on my own with only a doctor in the room and then raised you by myself all this time so that Cousin Matthew could appear and save the day?"

He turned to her, gently laying the baby in between them, the three of them all very cozy so that he could look her in the eye. "You were alone?"

"I was just muttering away, Matthew. I wasn't being serious. It makes me nervous, how serious you are this time around," Mary explained.

"We'll get to that bit about me being serious this time after we finish this topic. You were alone when you gave birth to Grace?" he asked again.

God, his eyes were so blue and so intense. How could he make her sad over something she wasn't upset about until he started talking about it and asking questions and looking at her like that. "Yes, I was alone. Of course I was alone. Who would be with me?" she asked her voice strong. If there was one thing she couldn't stand in a person it was self pity.

"Normally, I would have this thought, the one I am going to say aloud. And normally I wouldn't say it because I was afraid you would think I was stupid or that it would make you sad or worse angry."

"Well what's this thought that apparently is going to make me think you are stupid?"

"I would have been there," he said, reaching across the baby and squeezing her arm, touching her face. "I'm not just saying it either."

She sighed. "I believe you."

"I would have been there because I loved you and because no one should be alone at a time like that. But now that I know her," his hand moved to tickle Grace's stomach. "It makes me sad to think I missed it."

"Oh, Matthew," she sighed, closing her eyes against the threatening tears. "They don't really even let men in the room."

"They would have let me in the room. Where was your grandmother?"

Mary waved her hand. "You don't understand what she's like. She's been more than generous with me with this house and more but she was at the house in Newport when I went into labor. She has other priorities."

"Were you afraid?" he asked, looking at her as if it happened yesterday. He was stroking her side now, the three of them all so close on one little side of the bed.

"Matthew..." she replied gently. "It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have said anything."

"I'd like to know," he said kindly when only days ago he would have demanded and all the while stroking, stroking, stroking.

"Yes, I was afraid. I don't think there is a woman in history who isn't afraid when giving birth, particularly the first time," she tried to joke.

"You're trying to make it funny so I don't feel badly for you," he realized, his hand reached for hers. "You Crawley women are made of stern stuff."

She laughed and the baby laughed too, just because. "Well just look at my grandmother and your mother." Matthew pretended to grimace. Mary continued, "And now you're trying to make me laugh to distract me from the fact that you're thinking about me all alone and afraid, giving birth."

"It's a good thing I'm marrying a woman who knows me so well," he smiled.

She inclined her head towards him. "I haven't accepted yet."

"We'll get to that in a minute. But just so you know, Gracie and I took a vote, and you and I are getting married," he smiled and he could literally feel her resistance crumbling. "But back to when you gave birth to Gracie."

"You really were born to be a solicitor, weren't you?" Mary muttered.

"So what happened? How did you know...that you were in labor?" He struggled through the awkwardness of the question.

"You don't want to know about this, Matthew," she gave him a strange smile. "No man does. My papa almost had a conniption every time he had to say the word _pregnant_."

"You're embarrassed then to tell me?" Matthew asked, his brow furrowed. Oh Sweet Matthew, it was the look he wore when he had gone over the details of the entail over and over again, trying to understand every detail, trying to make two plus two equal five in her favor.

"No," she smiled. "I'm not embarrassed to tell you but you certainly would be embarrassed to hear."

"I want to know," he insisted.

"Alright. I'll tell you some...but you must promise to stop me if you're uncomfortable." He nodded for her to go on. "I'd had this terrible back ache all day."

"And that's an indication you might be in labor?" Gracie was chewing on one of his fingers but he was looking at Mary like there would be an exam on this later.

She smiled. "It can be, yes. It usually is when it's near your time. But...during pregnancy, at least for me, everything was constantly changing. One day I threw up in the mornings, one day I threw up the afternoons. One day I felt one way, one day I felt another..."

"You were sick?" He took his hand out of Gracie's mouth (she began to babble, happy to be in nappy without clothes) and grabbed Mary's hand again.

"Matthew, of course I was sick. My body was growing another human being. There were parts I loved about being pregnant, truly. But...it wasn't easy."

He smiled at her, like someone who was lovesick. Mary wondered what it meant that instead of being repulsed by that silly look, she was warm all over. "What parts did you love about being pregnant?"

She returned his smile because these were good memories. "Well, I loved that it was just the two of us, that while I was pregnant that was the closet we would ever be. And I loved feeling her move in my belly."

"What was that like?"

"Matthew..."

"Please," he asked, bringing his hand to his mouth to kiss. "Indulge me."

"At first, it was almost like little bubbles, barely noticeable at first so I felt half crazy parts of the time. But then I could really begin to feel her move. And then she start kicking, really kicking, hard." She grinned. "I could even feel when she had the hiccups."

"Could you really?" he asked entranced.

"Yes." She looked down at Grace and pressed a kiss to her nose. Without thinking she continued, "And then when I was really huge, near the end, I would lie in the bath and all of a sudden I could see her foot..." She stopped suddenly, turning bright red. "Forget I said anything."

"I can't forget _that."_

"Try to because I was very fat and very ugly."

"I don't believe you," he said. "So you'd be in the bath..."

"I can't talk about this with you...in front of Gracie," she hissed.

"Why?" he asked, laughing. "She was there too."

"Yes!" Gracie said.

Mary turned onto her back so she didn't have to meet his eyes, always too intimate for her, when she relayed it. "This was at the very end. But I would lie in the bath (a cool bath mind you because it's not good for the baby to have a hot one) and she would be moving around inside of me, and all of a sudden, I would see a foot. Clear as day. Pressed to my skin. I could literally watch her move and twist and see that she was as uncomfortable as I was, running out of room." She laughed and turned back to the two of them, looking Gracie. "And now she's growing up. I just don't know what I'm going to do..." Her breath caught in her throat when she looked at Matthew who seemed to have so much, too much emotion in his eyes.

"You promised no more longing glances," she reminded him teasingly.

"Then agree to marry me, for Grace and you and I to be a family, to have more children with me, and you'll never see me look at you this way again."

"Oh, Matthew." She turned on to her back again. It seemed like that's all she was saying lately _Oh, Matthew. _She wet her lips and tried to speak twice before she got the word out. She hated to be so afraid. "And if I married you, what would Gracie be to you?"

"My daughter, of course. You must see that I want that."

"And," her voice trembled as she looked up at the ceiling. "If...if we were to have more children, what would she be to you then?"

"Mary," he reached for her but she only pushed farther away, sitting up over the opposite edge of the bed.

"No, you really need to consider it. You really need to think about it. I could never be with you...I could never be with anyone...I just couldn't bear it..."

"Can't you hear how badly I wish I had been there? With you when you felt the first kicks and hiccups and in the bath? And when she was born? For God's sake when she was born?"

"Cover her ears," Mary commanded, her back still to him.

"What?"

"Please," she repeated, "Cover her ears."

"It doesn't matter; she's asleep. She was awake the whole night. She's exhausted," he told her.

"But wouldn't you think...wouldn't you remember that night in the library," her voice broke. God, she'd cried more in three days than she had in three years. "And what you saw and that she came from that..."

"For God's sake, Mary, stop," he said hoarsely. "Do you think of that? When you look at her?"

"No," she said and suddenly she was bent over, sobbing into her hands. She couldn't remember the last time she cried this hard. Maybe when she thought Matthew was dead? Maybe the night after Sir Richard? But this felt different. Her shoulders shook, ached with the effort.

Matthew moved the baby to the very middle of the bed and set a pillow as guardrail and and went around to Mary and held her. She cried against his middle, until his shirt was wet, and he stroked her hair, over and over again. She trembled against him, tried to even move away, and cover her eyes, but he wouldn't let her. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I never thought...I never believed that anyone could feel about her the way I do, considering the circumstances."

She looked up at him, her face against his torso. "But I think you do." She pressed her lips together when he nodded, too emotional himself to even speak. "How?" she asked.

"I think I just sort of fell in love with her. She was crying, her lower lip trembling. And I just knew she was mine. Ours."

"And what if," Mary asked, still looking up at him, face wet. "What if we do get married and we have four boys that look exactly like you and talk like you and are like you? What then?"

He took her face in his hands, as he had the very first time they'd touched in New York. And he smiled. It was the happiest smile she'd ever seen on him. "Then we'd have one beautiful daughter just like you and four sons like me."

She shuddered, wiping away her tears. "You can't imagine how I've agonized over all this since I found out about her. If she would ever have anyone other than me...And then we saw you the other day and I could tell how you felt and what you wanted. I kept going over all these scenarios of ways that she would be somehow _less _to you..."

"I see you had quite the interview planned out," he started to laugh hoarsely.

"Yes," Mary said, taking his hand.

"What?"

"Yes, I'll marry you." Her smile was luminous, complete, even with the drying tears.

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><p><em>Author's Note: So they're engaged. But even with a lot of hypotheticals figured out, there are a lot of practicalities still to figure out, don't you think? It's Mary and Matthew after all, can it actually go smoothly? What do you think of Mary's concerns and Matthew's answers? Let me know. You guys are the best! xx I will try for another today!<em>


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note: Well remember when Mary told Cora, I'll believe Matthew and his feelings when he actually does something about him...Yeah that happens. Besides that, you guys have been great! To answer a few questions...ATudorRose mentioned that she liked that everything kind of revolved around Grace. That was purposeful because it really annoys me when shows/books have babies in them but the adults still get to do anything they want, whenever they want. That's not real life (not saying this story *is* real life) but you get my point. Like do I have any Friends fans in the house? Remember Ben, Ross' kid? If you don't that's probably because we never ever saw him! LOL. So at times Grace's presence moves them forward and sometimes they would really prefer to get it on but there is also a baby to take care of. Matthew's got to go into this with his eyes wide open or he would never be able to meet the expectations Mary as a mother has for a partner and a father for Grace. Golden12, your review really touched me! Hopefully this chapter makes you very happy. To the frozen cherry, asking about what it will be like when they go back to Downton, well things will definitely be different, and it will be bumpy at times, but as always they will have Grace as motivation to have a family on their terms. But don't worry, I have a few tricks up my sleeves. To RCfan2007, who claimed she had a "fic kink" for Matthew getting called out, the reason you have that kink is because it NEEDS to happen on the show. Are you listening, Julian? (btw, all these character but for Grace belong to him who really is amazing but also needs to have Matthew apologize for about a million things. _

_ALL the reviews are amazing. I don't single anyone out except if there is a particular question that can easily be addressed. Hope you guys like this._

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><p>Chapter 8<p>

"Yes?" Matthew asked, bending forward with her face in his hands so their foreheads could touch.

"How many times do I have to say it?" she whispered, but he was smiling as he kissed her, as he felt her hands slide around his waist and up. For a moment, the kiss was less than passionate because they were both grinning so foolishly, but then she, and probably he to, felt her stomach lift, as if it were filled with butterflies and she opened his mouth to his. "Matthew," she whispered, groaning a little as he sucked on her bottom lip, which he was quickly learning was something she rather liked. "We can't. The baby."

He moved one of his legs between hers and leaned her back, not all the way, much like they'd leaned Grace back in the bath, but the allusion of being horizontal was delicious and she pressed herself to him. "She's sleeping," he whispered back.

He jinxed them because just then Gracie let out a little cry and Mary was turning in his arms to go to her. "Hello, darling girl," she whispered. "I think you'll be sleeping all day honestly."

"Please, let me have her," Matthew requested. "You were up all night too. And probably much more stressed than her. And you've just had a bit of cry. Let me take her and you just get back into your nightgown and sleep."

She gave him the baby because he asked. But she shook her head. "In the middle of the day? I couldn't. And besides you don't know how..."

He gave her a look that indicated it was not up for debate. "I actually do know quite a lot," he said with some dignity. "You have been an excellent tudor. But," and he smiled, "if worse comes to worse, and Grace and I can't manage will come and wake you up..."

"And not sneak into bed with me?" Mary asked, arching her eyebrow.

"I can't make any promises. Grace and I will have to vote on that," he grinned at her and the baby touched his face, tracing his lips with very little precision.

"Why do I feel as if I will be hearing about this vote a lot in the future?" Mary laughed.

"Because you're an incredibly smart person," he said. "Alright, Gracie, give Mama a kiss. She's going to take a nap."

Gracie looked at Matthew with horror, putting both her hands on his face. "Me? No! No! No!"

"No, me, you silly, darling girl," Mary said as she stood and put her arms around the two of them. "May I have a kiss, Gracie?" The little girl obliged sweetly. "And what about me, Mama?" Matthew asked. "May I have a kiss?" Mary leaned forward and kissed him warmly, before Gracie pulled them apart. "Me!" she insisted and Matthew kissed the baby's mouth.

"Alright," he said, beginning to walk away. "Get some sleep, please."

Mary started to take a step forward. "But she's not even dressed. How will you? And her nappy?"

"Mary," Matthew said with such patience and love in his voice. "I've watched you do it. It will be fine. I promise if we can't manage we'll wake you up but darling, for me, just try to lay down."

So she took out the pins from her hair and undid her clothes and slipped into her nightgown. The whole time thinking of a million things he was sure to do wrong. She hoped he wouldn't go to Mrs. Larsen, not that the woman would mind, but that wasn't exactly her job either. Mary laid in the bed. And would he remember to feed Gracie? And what if she fussed?

She was asleep in seconds after laying her head on the pillow, the exhaustion from the night and the earlier emotional conversation completely running her over.

Meanwhile, Matthew changed his first nappy. It could have been worse. Then he dressed the baby much as he had first seen her in the park, in a little dress and tights, and shoes, and he found her coat and buttoned that all too. "Are you ready, darling?"

"Yes!' Gracie cried. "Yes! Yes!"

He knew that Mary thought he would simply try to put the baby back to sleep but call it fatherly intuition, he and his girl had other plans today. He found the bag filled with nappies and a change of clothes and some empty bottles and then he went down stairs to beg a little help of Mrs. Larsen.

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Does the Mistress know you're taking that baby with you?" The way she said Mistress seemed to be with a wink.

"Well, Mary is exhausted and had to have a lie down. Gracie and I have a few errands to run. But I wonder if I could prevail upon you to tell me what I need to fill these bottles with? Water? Milk? And should we have snacks? Food?"

Mrs. Larsen grinned at him. "You need water and I'll give you some of the animal crackers the baby likes. She had breakfast before her nap. Milk will spoil. You sure you're up for this?"

"Of course, I'm up for this," Matthew insisted, holding Gracie in his arms who was clapping her hands and yelling "Yay!" at the top of her lungs. "Will she be warm enough?"

"Oh, yes, just keep her buttoned up. There should be a hat in that bag if you need it..."

"'And the pram, Mrs. Larsen? Where may I find it?"

Soon enough he and Gracie were on their way. Gracie laughing happily as they walked along the sidewalk, clapping her hands, and even waving at various strangers. He felt a strange sense of pride pushing her pram about.

Finally, they reached his hotel. First he went to the concierge and politely inquired, "How does one get married in New York? Also, how might one begin to adopt a child...from a previous relationship?" The concierge looked flummoxed for a moment, but Matthew smiled charmingly and Gracie blew him a kiss. "Hold on sir, let me just get that information for you."

"That's alright," Matthew offered. "I've got to go and collect my things." Gracie seemed to enjoy the ride in the elevator. "Yay!" she clapped to the operator. And when they found his room, he left the baby in the pram once inside.

"I'll only be a second, darling, I promise," he told her smiling. "I'm very neat, you know!"

"Yay! You!" Gracie clapped.

"But just so you know," he said conversationally, "You will never be alone with a man, other than me or brothers,when you have them, until you are married. Which according to your Mama will happen, the earliest at thirty." He zipped his suitcase, tucking the money he'd had in the safe into his wallet. "I'm sorry, baby, I'm sure you'll disagree with us but just remember, Mama and...Papa voted on it, and this is the way it will go."

She turned her head at him quizzically and he laughed at her which of course, had her clapping. So then they were off again, pushing the pram with one hand, holding his rather large suitcase with the other. Grace again enjoyed the elevator and Matthew pushed her towards the front desk. Again, he gave the man here his most charming smile, knowing the English accent, of course, didn't hurt. "Please, I need to check out. And I wonder if I could pay for my luggage to be sent to this address later today." He slid a card already prepared towards the man. "I am, of course, willing to pay for the service. I just can't manage with...my daughter and the suitcase."

"Of course," the man intoned. "It's no problem."

They walked back to the concierge and he could tell Gracie was growing bored with the hotel. "Sir," the man said. "You'll need to go to the courthouse with your fiancé and apply for a license..."

"And if we wanted to be married by a judge?" Matthew asked, pushing the pram back and forth to soothe Grace. He knew it would be impossible for any clergy to marry them, not the way they would want it done.

"Well, I believe sir, they could give you more information there. There is a waiting period, I believe," the man offered. "As for adoption, sir, I think you'll need a lawyer."

"Alright," said Matthew smiling. "Thank you so much for your help." And off he and Gracie went again. She was happier in the fresh air, and the movement of the pram, and the people watching. "This is such a large city," Matthew murmured for Gracie's benefit. When he spotted a post office, he went in, telegramming Mr. Murray (who was now also his personal lawyer) that he would need a large sum of money again sent to Mary's address, although for Murray's sake, and Mary's, he gave it as only an address. He also added that he needed a lawyer in New York. "Could you point me towards the best jewelry store in the entire city?" he asked the postman.

Right before they walked into the jewelry story, he leaned down towards Gracie. "Now, darling girl, we have to behave very well inside here. We mustn't touch anything and we must be very quiet. This is for Mama so it's very important."

Some of the men behind the counter seemed positively mortified to see a child so small in the store. But Matthew found an older gentleman with a very fine white mustache, who was winking at Gracie. "Hello, I need to buy an engagement ring," Matthew said without preamble.

"Well this one there seems a little small to be getting married," and the man winked at Gracie again who clapped and blew him a kiss, before turning back to Matthew. "Now some men have some idea of what they want and some none at all. What kind of man are you?"

Matthew had grinned, the whole day, walking around the city this sense of excitement and joy was building in his chest. It felt so wonderful to finally be able to say, even to this stranger, "Yes, I know exactly what I want. I want the brightest diamond you have, maybe not the biggest, but the best. Something classic without being ordinary. Nothing ostentatious but something incredible nonetheless. She has delicate hands, you see. But she's a very strong woman. Classic but modern." Then Matthew looked helplessly at the man. "I've just given you a million oxymorons."

"Not to worry. I've been doing this a long time. I have a few I think you would like." He returned back rather quickly. "Let's start with these four. I don't want to overwhelm you otherwise all of them begin to look the same."

Matthew thought he knew it as soon as he saw but he rubbed his jaw. It was Mary after all, guessing her tastes was not an easy thing. Eventually he went with his gut, and pulled forward one of the rings. "May I?" he asked. The man nodded. Matthew leaned down towards Gracie, placing the open ring box in front of her. "What do you think, Gracie Girl? Do you think she'll love it?"

"Oooooh!" Grace said, dazzled by the gems.

"I'll take it," Matthew said, handing it back to the man. "I also wonder, if you might have something for a little girl, a necklace perhaps. For when Grace here is a bit older. Very delicate."

The man hesitated for only a moment. "I do have a necklace, very delicate, very pretty. It nearly mimics the ring you picked, though they weren't made together. But it's diamonds and I don't know how dear you wanted to make it."

"Please let me see it," Matthew asked and as soon as he did, he replied, "I'll take them both." Then, he promptly handed over every single penny he had in his wallet, including the money that he would have used to stay at the hotel for another month. He barely made it.

"Sir," the man asked. "Is there somewhere I can have my man bring the two pieces, so you don't have to carry them around the city? The service is complimentary."

"When would they arrive?" Matthew asked.

"This afternoon, the evening at the latest."

"Perfect," Matthew replied.

Something was stroking her hair and Mary mumbled and buried deeper into the covers. "Mary," Matthew whispered. She sleepily opened her eyes to see Matthew and Grace, already dressed in her pajamas.

"How long have I been asleep?" Mary asked huskily.

"Well for quite awhile. Here darling, give Mama a kiss hello," he said leaning the baby over to press lips to Mary's. "It's her bedtime and I wouldn't have woken you at all, you probably could have slept through morning but...I didn't want you to be upset about not putting her to sleep two nights in a row."

"Matthew," she smiled, her voice still sleepy. "You are..." she rose in her nightgown and wrapped her arms around both he and the baby, "a prince of a man." She began to kiss all the parts of the face she could reach, finally his lips, for long as she could without wanting more. "How is it you know me so well, even here away, far from Downton, when it comes to mothering Grace?" He didn't answer just handed her the baby and Mary pressed her face into Grace's neck and breathed in deeply.

"You gave her another bath!" Mary exclaimed. "That was very brave of you," she laughed. "But Matthew, babies don't need to bathe _everyday_. It's different than us."

"Oh no," Matthew contradicted as he followed Mary out of the room in her nightgown, _in her nightgown, _with her hair down, _with her hair all the way down. _"Believe me, please. I fed her dinner for the first time and a bath was a definite necessity. But Mary," and he stopped her progress with a hand on her hip (God this nightgown was so thin). He whispered into her ear: "I couldn't bear to wash her hair again, not without you there. I just panicked. So I got a cloth and wet it and I think I got all the peas out of it. But..."

"Oh, Matthew," she said, turning her face so that he could kiss her. It was such a strange feeling to be standing there so close, wanting him, with Grace in her arms. "Didn't I say you were a prince of a man?" She continued to the nursery and sat in the rocking chair. "Did you change her..." Matthew nodded. Her brain still felt fuzzy. How could all of this happen in such a short time, Matthew going from a stranger from a different era to feeding her daughter peas? How had they done nothing but long for years and year and then now he was changing nappies and touching her hip and kissing her against doors? She must have blushed because Matthew asked, "What is it? What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," she muttered. "Nothing." She began to hum to Gracie.

"Wait a moment, please," he asked. "Don't put her to sleep quite yet." Suddenly, Matthew was on one knee in front of the rocking chair. "I know I've already proposed and that you said yes. But I want it to be official. So today Gracie and I picked out this."

The ring was gorgeous, a large, bright center stone with a tiny halo of diamonds set just a distance away from it, in a platinum. "You and Gracie?" she asked, bringing her hand to her throat.

"We had some errands to run, you know."

"Did you have her coat..."

"Mary, I'm kneeling in front of you with a ring in my hand. Yes, she had a coat. We had snacks and water. It went perfectly fine. _Just say yes_._"_

Mary laughed. "But I already have." He slid the ring onto her finger. "Oh, Matthew! It's perfect. It's gorgeous. It's the most perfect ring I've ever seen. And it fits. Look Gracie," she put her hand in the baby's lap. "Look at Mama's ring."

"Ooooh!" she repeated her earlier excitement.

"What's the second box, then?" Mary asked. "Surely nothing for me."

"No not for you, but for us. And for Gracie." He had yet to lift the lid. "I know we still have a lot of logistics to work out. And I would pleased, more than pleased really, if she never knew anything other than me being her Papa. But I got her this, for when she's older," he opened the box and Mary looked at him. "So that you and I could know at least, and always remember, that I know I'm taking you, because I love you and I want you, and I know I'm taking her too because I love her and I want her as well."

"Matthew," she whispered. She could feel herself tear up. "I...just don't even know what to say...I don't think I _can_ even explain to you what this means to me." Her voice broke. "I'm undone, really. Anything I hoped for her, you've just outdone even my wildest dreams and hopes. I've been worried, you know, what it would be like to share her. But I'm not anymore. I want to. Because she's yours as much as she is mine. And it was always meant to be that way." Matthew laid his head in Mary's lap, just as undone by her words as she was by his gesture, and both Mary and Gracie played with all that gorgeous thick hair of his.

The baby went to sleep quickly (after all, she hadn't taken a nap as long as her mother) and they both pressed kisses to her head and left the nursery hand and hand. It was so strange to feel his ring on her finger. "Wait," Mary said and wound her arms around his neck. The nursery door was shut halfway. "Is Mrs. Larsen gone for the night?"

"I'm not positive," he said grinning. "I know she was finishing up when I came up."

"Then I better kiss you here," she said, pushing him gently against the wall, pressing wet, opened mouth kisses to the side of his neck. His hands went to her hips, pulling her even closer and he had to bite his lip to keep from moaning. Mary's hands were restless, running all over him, even pausing just for a second, hesitating only a moment, on the button of his pants, before moving on.

"Actually, darling," he said, through gritted teeth, as she undid his first two buttons of shirt and pushed the undershirt out of the way so she could suck and kiss and nibble at part of his chest. "There's something I really must tell you."

"Now?" she complained, hooking her fingers in the side of pants. "Really?"

"Yes, really," he said.

"But I haven't even kissed you properly yet," she said and opened her mouth on his. Her hands were in his hair and his hands had moved to her bottom and before she even realized it, he'd lifted her about an inch off the floor and carried her into her bedroom.

Lifting her higher, he sat her with a thump on the dresser, and she hooked her legs around his again, everything aligned so perfectly, only her thin nightgown keeping her from her center. He started to move the nightgown up her legs but she whispered hotly into his ear, "I'm sorry, Matthew. I want to. You must know that I do. But we can't. Not yet."

"You're right." When he moved, it felt as if he was literally tearing himself apart from her. "I said we needed to talk. You...You just stay there and I'll sit on the corner of the bed. And we'll...talk."

"Talk?" she quirked her eyebrow. "What did you want to talk to me about?" Lady Mary rearranged her nightgown, and cross her feet at the ankles on top of the dresser.

Matthew blew out a breath. He could hardly think. "A few things. But first, I checked out of my hotel today. Another errand Gracie and I ran."

"I see," Lady Mary said, pursing her lips, examining her hands. "And where do you plan on staying instead? Somewhere closer perhaps?" she said sweetly, though she didn't mean it that way.

"Why yes, actually." His face brightened. "Somewhere closer. In fact," he got up and moved to one side of the bed. "It's right here."

"Matthew!" she hissed. "This obsession you have with my bedroom..."

"Our bedroom," he interrupted.

"It's highly improper, as you well know," she turned up her nose at him.

He laughed. "Oh and how about that business _you _instigated outside the nursery, was that proper? Or what you _instigated _ in the doorway last night, was that proper?"

Her cheeks colored. "Perhaps I have been lapse in certain areas..."

"Perhaps?" Matthew's eyebrow raised.

"We're adults, Matthew," she snapped. "I have a child for God's sake. Should we just hold hands through my gloves then?"

"Exactly! We are in perfect agreement!" He chortled.

"How did you do that?"

"What?" he asked.

"Work it around so I was angry with you and then suddenly proving your point?" She looked at him suspiciously.

"You forget, darling, I am a solicitor," he laughed. "And also, let the record show that the expression you are giving me now is an exact replica of your granny."

Her face immediately went slack. "I won't be with you in that way until we're married."

"And I won't be with you in that way until we're married." He went to her then and took both of her hands in his. "But I would like to sleep beside you and I would very much like repeat performances of both the doorway and the wall and the dresser, and as often as possible, as often as you'll have me, until we can be together in that way."

She squeezed his hands. "None of this would ever happen at Downton."

"I know," he replied. "But none of this, from the first moment I saw you in the park, and every conversation and look we've shared since would have happened at Downton either. Do you know how long we've waited?" She arched a brow at him as if to say, _excuse me sir, but I know exactly how long we've waited for one another._ "I want to be a family with you and Grace. Now. Today. And tomorrow we'll go get the marriage certificate and then a few days after that we'll be married."

"Really?" she whispered. "Is this really happening?"

"It is," he murmured and pressed a kiss on her hand above her ring. "I thought about sleeping in your grandmother's room but everything has sheets over it and then I thought about Mrs. Larsen's room but there isn't even a real bed in there. But if you want, I can sleep on the couch."

"Oh, you know I wouldn't have you on the couch. You know I want you in that bed as much as you want to be in it. But I'm a woman and I have to at least pretend to have some virtue."

He kissed one cheek and then the other, spreading her legs and sliding between them. "I think you have quite a bit of virtue," he said hotly.

"There have to be rules," she whispered, her eyes moving to his mouth. God, his mouth. "No kissing in the bed. At all. None. We would never be able to control ourselves."

"That's very wise, darling," he whispered, pressing a kiss to one corner of her mouth and then the other. "What about on dressers?"

"Those are alright," she said smugly. "But for tonight, I think I've reached my limit of self control. Just one last kiss goodnight, darling." She pulled him closer to her with his ankles and bit his lip before sucking on it. Matthew groaned. "Okay, alright, get away from me," she cried. "Go put on your pajamas and I'll get into to bed and no kissing."

When he returned to the room, she was in bed with her eyes closed. She'd left a lamp on his side of the bed on to guide him. "You have to keep the door open. I'm a very heavy sleeper," he snorted at that, "and I won't hear her otherwise."

"We'll I'm not a heavy sleeper." He closed the door halfway. After all, weren't they learning to compromise? "And I'll get up with her if she wakes. After all," he began already anticipating an argument. "You told me that you wanted me here in the middle of the night."

He got beneath the covers and turned off the light. Then he moved to spoon his body around hers. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

"I'm holding you while we sleep," he snapped back. "I think that's rather obvious. And I haven't kissed you so I'm following the rules."

His arm draped over her middle. For a moment she was quiet. "I have a new rule."

"Oh?"

"No caressing. On the bed that is. Your hands can choose one spot and then must remain stationary."

"Alright, darling," he said, perfectly happy to fall asleep with his nose touching her bare neck. She moved a bit, fluffing her pillow. "New rule," he said in a very strained voice. "No wiggling, especially..."

"That?" she asked innocently as she scooted backwards and wiggled her bottom a little.

"Yes, that," he spat, and moved to put a little distance between their bodies, at least there.

"Darling?" she asked sleepily, as she laced his hand with her own. "Do you think there will ever come a time when we don't argue and bate one another?

Neither one of them could know that they were both remembering a particular bench on the grounds of Downton. They had been so young then! _If you really like an argument, we should see more of each other._

"Of course there will be a time when we don't argue and bate one another," he yawned. "When we're dead."

They both smiled, no, grinned in the dark.

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><p><em>Author's Note: So what did you think of all of Matty's "actions" today? Are they moving too fast? What about Matthew in the role of sole provider (for an afternoon at least)? And what did you think about his speeches to his girls? Oh and the dresser...URMYSTICK, it wasn't the counter (and I'm not ruling it out) but I think it was something of what you were looking for. <em>

_Hey guess what guys? I am sick in bed and so bored. So I could be motivated, with enough feedback on this, to post a third chapter tonight. I know it's crazy but it *could* happen...I promise I'm not a tease. OH AND. The next chapter is going to have some goooood scenes in it. Okay, I'm a tease._


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note: Hullo! Here is a chapter that I am very self conscious over because it was definitely not what I planned on being..._

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><p>Chapter Nine<p>

When Mary was sure that Matthew was asleep, when she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck slow and even, she moved, not wiggled, but moved, back closer to him, so his body was completely against her own. She knew she'd made such a fuss about it and the impropriety of it all but she could remember being such a young girl, just when she started to like him, dreaming of him laying beside her, just sleeping, nothing more. It felt decadent and crazy at the same time that here they were, worlds from where they'd begun, and they were pressed together as if they were one body and his ring was on her finger.

Later in the night, without any clue as to the time, she woke alone, the space where he'd been still warm, the pillow they'd shared still holding the shape of his head. She rose from bed, could see the door to the nursery was open. Without a light, she felt along the wall as she always did. But this time there were voices leading her too.

"See?" Matthew said. "You are Gracie. And I am Papa. Gracie. Papa. Papa Gracie."

"You," Gracie stated, and Mary heard her yawn.

"Yes, me, I'm Papa," Matthew repeated and now she was just behind the rocking chair. She could see just a part of his face. He was so serious. "It's alright. You may go to sleep. We will work more on it tomorrow night," he said with a sigh. "Your papa loves you, darling."

She was behind him now and she leaned down against his back and crossed her hands over the front of his neck, sliding her hands beneath the shirt of his pajamas to touch (oh to touch) his skin. "Don't be disheartened," she whispered into his ear. "She can't make the _p_ sound at all yet. I'm very sure that when she can say her _p's _that her first word will be Pa and she will be looking at you when she says it."

"Do you think so?" He leaned his face against the side of one of her arms.

"I do," she murmured, caressing her chest with her hands.

"You weren't supposed to hear that, you know." He sighed into her touch, the baby now asleep in his arms.

"Why ever not?"

"It's embarrassing," he complained. "I so badly want her to know me and love me but how can she? It's only been a few days."

"You should have more faith," she whispered against his ear, reminding them both of the first time they'd kissed over sandwiches. He turned so their faces were very close together. "After all," she continued to murmur, her lips literally on his ear, "Look how far we've come."

"I think I should put this baby in her crib," he whispered back, a silly smirk on his face.

"What do you know?" She breathed. "I happen to agree." She slipped her arms out from under his pajama shirt so he could get up and do exactly that. "Will you come back to our bed?" she asked.

"Are you sure you want me there?" He leaned down to kiss Grace's forehead. "After all, there do seem to be a lot of rules in our bed." Again, they left the door half a jar.

"There will only be rules for a few days," she murmured as took her hands in his. "Then there won't be any at all." It was so strange to feel completely brave at some moments (sliding her hands down under his shirt) and so shy the next. She bit her lip. "But there aren't any rules on the couch."

He leaned into her, still grasping both of her hands, their foreheads touching. "No rules?" he breathed.

"But for the one," she whispered back.

"So," he kissed her, just below the ear, "Would you like to accompany me to the couch?"

Her shyness returned when he gazed at her. He was making it her choice, which scared and delighted him. And they were agreed that they would wait for _that_ for the wedding night but, as her cheeks heated, and his gaze only intensified, she knew that there were many other things they could do, things she didn't even know of, and still have _that _ for the wedding night. She wet her lips with her tongue (causing Matthew to hold in a groan), "And if...and if I accompany you to the couch and I freeze up or don't know what do or..."

"Simply ask me to stop," he supplied for, kissing each of her hands.

She looked up at him. "You really will...stop? Even if...what if it causes you," she had no idea what word to use, "_pain _somehow?"

He kissed her lips softly, twice. "Let's just go back to bed, darling."

"No!" her voice a little to loud for a sleeping baby near by. "No," she repeated.

"I want you to be comfortable," he explained in whispers. "I don't want you to worry. Over time, trust will build. I'm not worried about it."

She tugged on the sleeve of his pajama cuff. "But_ I _do want to accompany you to the couch. Very badly. I'm just nervous and what if I did something wrong."

"Darling, I just couldn't bear it if for even just a second you thought or felt like..."

"Don't say it. Don't talk about them," she begged.

"Alright," he agreed. He put her hand through his arm. "Well let's just go down to the couch and talk it out then."

"Talk?" she asked as they descended the stairs and there was a note of disappointment in her voice.

He winked. "We'll talk...until you aren't shy anymore. After all, you weren't shy that night by the door or by the nursery or on the dresser."

She blushed. "After...those place, I felt shy about it."

"Just shy?" he asked, seating her on the couch and then sitting very close to her, his arm around her.

"Also happy," she admitted. "And a little proud that I..."

He prompted her. "That you...?"

"That I could make you want me that way. It felt incredible."

He nuzzled the side of her face, his nose in all that glorious hair. "I always want you. Didn't you know?"

"No," she whispered.

"Sometimes you'll be doing the simplest thing or the most unexpected task and I want you so much, I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from reaching for you," he admitted, smiling into her hair.

This time she prompted. "Like when I..."

With his free hand, he grabbed one of her own and squeezed. "Like when you are rocking the baby and you lean back and hum and there's just this long line of your bare throat that I just want to suck on until I left a mark...Or when I saw you in your bare feet. I wanted your bare legs around me. Nearly got my wish there. Or when you push a pin back into place in your hair...God, I love your hair down. I just want to wrap myself up in it. Or when you're reaching for the vase for the flowers, I thought about just turning you around to take your breasts in my hands. Or when you're trying to wake up, all fuzzy eyed and mumbling, I want to just slide into bed beside you and..."

"Do you want me now?" she asked, thrilled she already knew the answer.

"God, Mary," his voice was hoarse, his arm around her shoulders squeezing her. "Do you have to ask? Are you teasing me?"

"No," she said and she didn't feel shy when she turned her face to look at him. "I want you to do those things you said you wanted to, all of them, here on the couch where there is only that one rule."

"Now?" he asked, as if he were in pain. "You're sure?"

"I think so," she whispered. "I do. I really do."

She nodded but didn't blush and he let go of her hand to turn his face to his and he was kissing her, his mouth open, his tongue tangling with hers. She hummed in her throat, turning in his arms so she could face him, press more of herself against him, and taking her free arm and wrapping it around her his neck, so her fingers could spread through his hair. Then, both of his hands were in her hair, getting caught, wrapping it up, tugging and pulling in the most delightful way. He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and she groaned as she always did. When he did it again, and then began to suck on little bits of her top lip, biting, then soothing, tracing with his tongue, she made a sound like a cat being pet and lifted one of her legs over his lap, so she straddled him, her nightgown all around them.

This time he groaned and couldn't help but press his hands into her hips, pushing her down on to him so the silk she wore and the silk of his pajamas slid again against another. His lips moved frantically to her neck, sucking, just as he described, except she was sure she'd have much more than one mark there. He kept making these delicious sounds in his throat and she knew that she was making him make those sounds and the friction between the two of them was almost to much to bear. She began to move over him, and for a second, he leaned his head back away from her, sucking in air, trying to get a hold of himself, she didn't know. It only meant that she could lean forward and return his favor and put her lips on his neck, sucking his skin into her mouth. All the while, his hands on her hips, giving them some kind of rhythm that felt delicious. She was moaning at the feeling between them. She could feel how hot and hard he was.

"We should stop," he whispered on a groan.

"Why?" she asked. "I don't want to stop. I love you. I want you." He didn't have the words, let alone the brain power to admit that all this was leading them somewhere they couldn't go, not yet. Before she knew what she was doing. She started unbuttoning his pajama top and he didn't even try to stop her. He just said, rather, breathlessly, "Can I?" lifting his hands to her breasts. "Yes, yes," she said quickly and then she could feel his thumbs, just the whisper of touch, rubbing her nipples, then his whole hand cupped them as he said he'd wanted to and he groaned loudest of all. "Mary," he murmured, against her neck. "We're stopping." He lifted her off of him and moved her so she was a cushion away from him.

"But...But..." she reached out a hand for him and he took it in his own, in the distance between the two of them, mostly to keep her from moving closer. "I want you."

"And I want you," he said. God, he was sweating. He felt as if he was being tortured. "You know that."

"Have you been with a woman before?" she asked, taking her hand from his, and sitting up, tucking her feet beneath her nightgown like a little girl.

The question completely surprised him, enough that most his ardor disappeared. "What?"

"Have you ever been with a woman before?"

"Yes," he admitted. He couldn't lie to her.

"When?" she wanted to know. He tried to read her voice for hurt or pain but in the dark, it was hard to tell. "Who was she? Was it Lavinia?"

"No," he said quickly. "No. It wasn't Lavinia. It was about a year ago."

"Did you love her?" she asked.

This was surely a lose lose situation. "No, I didn't love her. We were acquaintances. And..."

"And what?" she asked, her hand sliding back across the couch towards him. "Was she a...prostitute?"

"No, she wasn't a prostitute. She was an acquaintance who knew the score before anything happened between us. By then I was sure that you weren't coming back and if you did it would be with a husband and God, Mary..." he took her hand and squeezed her hand until bone rubbed against bone. "Every time I thought, or considered, being with anyone. It was you I wanted. Always. From the beginning."

"But what about Lavinia?" she asked, he felt dizzy thinking that Mary would be the one to defend Lavinia, how she'd rightly accused him that he had given her more attention dead then alive. He remembered asking Mary to look after Lavinia, at the train station (how cruel could he have been) and she had kept her vows much better than he had. "Why did you ask her to marry you, if it's as you say, that you wanted me?"

He stood up, in the dark sitting room. His pajama top lost somewhere. "Because I wanted someone who wanted me. I never thought you did. I wanted someone who loved me more than I loved them. I never wanted to feel like..."

"Like I made you feel? When I took so long to accept you?" She walked to him, wrapped her hands around his bare back and pressed kiss after kiss there. "When you thought it was because of your prospects if you weren't an earl? But really it was because of Mr. Pamuk and my shame?"

He put his hands over hers on his belly. "Don't be sad," he begged. "I didn't mean to make you sad."

"I'm not," she said and kissed him again on his shoulder blade. "I know that this was the way it was supposed to happen because we wouldn't have Grace otherwise. But," she kissed his back again, "I want you to know, I need you to know, that I would have taken you and been happy to, that I wanted to. The only reason, _the only reason _I didn't say yes immediately was because of Pamuk. And I wanted to tell you and I didn't know how. But if there had been no Mr. Pamuk and you were just Cousin Matthew, not the future Earl of Grantham, I would have run away with you if you asked me to. I would have done anything to be with you. And though I more than chided Sybil, if you were the chauffeur, Matthew...It wouldn't have mattered."

"Mary," he said, his voice straining. He wanted to turn around then but her arms tightened and she kept kissing his back.

"And when you were with Lavinia, I still would have done anything to be with you. Only I thought you didn't want me. When you made her leave, in the hospital, and you kept saying you couldn't marry Lavinia or anyone and I said _And if they just want to be with you? On any terms? _I was talking about me then, not Lavinia. Because it was true. I would have taken you then too. I had no idea you ever thought of me until that night when we danced."

"I was very stupid," he said, finally turning her arms. "After the Garden Party and that disaster, I thought it would be safer, for me, of course, to find someone who loved me a great deal more than I loved them. That wasn't fair to you and that wasn't fair to Lavinia. And then there was the war and the urgency of it all, and the wanting to love someone like I loved you, certain I was going to die, and I tried..."

"While we're being honest, Matthew, and talking openly. There is one more thing. And so maybe it's good that you stopped whatever was happening on that couch." She closed her eyes. "I didn't have the language or the courage before, when I finally told you about Mr. Pamuk, to explain exactly..."

"Mary, you don't have to..."

"I want to," she said looking up at him. "Because I want you to understand...me. And on our wedding night, I want to understand you...I want you to understand," she repeated lamely. "I told you Mr. Pamuk died in my bed and you asked me why and how and I said some rubbish about lust or adventure. But still, even then, my confession...was a lie. The truth is that I was attracted to Mr. Pamuk, in a way I couldn't explain. He tried to kiss me and maybe for a moment I kissed him back but I pushed him away. I told him I wouldn't tell my father but if he ever forgot himself again then I would tell Papa..."

She could feel his shoulders, bend towards her, as if he could cover her completely in an embrace that could protect. "But that's all I...then that night I was in bed and Mr. Pamuk walked in. I don't even know how he knew which room was mine. I certainly never told him. I told him to leave and he refused. I told him I would scream and he said I would be ruined anyway with a man in my room. Then he was kissing me and a part of him did want him," she tightened her grip on him, "But not enough to be with him that way. I didn't feel as if I had any other choice. And, perhaps most importantly of all, you should know that Mr. Pamuk may have died on top of me but he was not...he was not," she cringed and flushed and pulled away from Matthew. "Inside of me. Ever."

He stepped towards her back, put his hands on her shoulders. "You probably think me very improper for being so obvious with my language."

"No," he murmured. "I don't think that. You're crying," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said and stepped away from him. "I'm not crying over Pamuk. I was a girl and I was stupid and yes, it wasn't altogether pleasant him coming into my room and it certainly was horrible carrying him down the hallway," she let out a watery laugh. "But with Richard, what he did, that's what makes me cry, just sometimes. Because I was a woman then. And I didn't think anything like that would ever happen to _me. _Or that he would..." She pushed tears off her cheeks. "Oh what I'm trying to say is you may be thinking that I know what's between a man and a woman because of Pamuk but the truth is all I know about what really goes on between a man and a woman is what happened in that library."

"Mary," he repeated and again walked to her and put her shoulders in his hands, turning her to look at him.

"I just thought you should know, considering you're going to be my husband. And maybe you don't want me at all now...maybe I was stupid to even tell you any of it."

"Mary, please," he finally cried. "Thank you for telling me. I didn't know any of that. The truth is Mary, I called you a storm braver and you are one. You're the strongest woman, person, I know and so I don't want you to feel badly about appearing fragile in front of me or showing what _you _consider weakness. Do you think we could come so far and you could tell me anything, _anything, _to keep me from marrying you?"

"But what if I can't...on our wedding night...what if I can't..."

"Well I have two responses to that and the first is one you gave me: _and if I should just want to be with you_? That's not the reason I'm marrying you."

"And the second?" she asked, sniffling.

"At any point, in any place we've been together, kissed or touched, or...anything...has he," and they knew exactly who he was talking about, "ever crossed your mind?"

"No!" she cried and literally threw herself into his arms with relief, he'd just lifted a huge weight off her shoulders when it came to concerns about the wedding night.

He kissed the side of her head. "Let's go back upstairs to our bed and to our rules."

"Rules for only a few more days," she reached up and whispered in his ear. "And then I'll be yours. Only yours."

When she woke up, the next morning, she was alone. There was a note in his place.

_My darling, darling, darling Mary,_

_I'm our taking our banshee of a daughter for a walk in the park, to let her run around a bit, because she woke early and full of energy _(there was a strange doodle after that) _She just stole the pen away from me for a second. She's very eager to go...Only Mary, I must tell you that every single difficult conversation we've had since I saw you in the Park has been worth it. In the end, I feel I know you better, us better, me better than I ever could have before. The woman I know you to be now has completely entranced me, and I'm afraid, I am more in love with you than ever. When we begin our lives together as man and wife, it will be such a relief, so good to just know one another and all that uncomfortable business that comes along with those proper English engagements and marriages with years of getting to know one's spouse won't be our cross to bear _(here another doodle)_ I must go. Gracie can be very demanding, you know how Crawley women can be. But I thought when you woke, you might feel, self conscious over our conversation last night and I only wanted to say...I only wanted you to know...don't._

_Yours, Always, Yours,_

_Matthew_

And then as a post script: _When you finally get out of bed, get dressed, get ready, because we're going to the courthouse and we are getting our license. We've got to step up the pace, my girl, if we kept on going as we were before, we might be engaged just (maybe) by the time Grace entered university. _(a final doodle ended the note)

For a moment, Mary rolled over in the bed, pressing the letter to her chest as her ring glinted in the sunlight. She felt, finally, after years of no one really knowing her or listening to her or loving her, that someone, the _best one, _finally did.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Sooooo. There are a lot of speeches in this chapters. And I'm not really into a lot of speeches. But every time I kept trying to shorten them, it seemed like something that needed to be said, and before they get married. Opinions? <em>


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's Note: A bit of a shorter chapter but I am sick so...but I expect another one tonight because I am excited to write it. The Dowager Countess makes a bit of an "appearance" so to speak here. I love her so much. _

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><p>Mary did, in fact, get up and get dressed. When she went to the mirror to do her hair, she found that she grinning without being aware of. <em>Don't get ahead of yourself, Mary, <em>she told herself, _this could all go to pieces in an instant. After all, _her mind ruefully added, _it usually does._

She was downstairs at the little desk by the door when the duo came in. Without looking up at either one of them, "I see you're not just staying here, Matthew, but living here since two telegrams and a letter are addressed to you here," she said dryly.

But then Grace's laughter made her look up at the two of them, framed in the sun shining through the doorway. Grace was cuddled up against him, her head pressed to the space between his jaw and neck and one of her little arms was around Matthew's shoulder, playing with his hair. She was giggling to herself. "And how," Mary continued in that same dry tone (though she had to work at it this time), "did the two of you both get grass staines on your knees."

"Grace?" Matthew asked. "Would you like to take this one?"

"Mo'," she said, rather sweetly gazing up at Matthew.

Mary only raised her eyebrow at Matthew. "We were playing. And there may have been some wrestling."

"Wrestling?" Mary sputtered.

"Gentle wrestling," Matthew added, while Grace continued to look up at him as if the sun rose and fell with him, lazily twirling a piece of his hair between her fingers.

"Gentle wrestling?" Mary asked. "Girls do not wrestle."

"Well you see, Lady Mary, I seem to recall you giving quite a speech about how your daughter would be allowed to run and play and that no one would ever tell her to _act like a lady_," Matthew replied, tongue in cheek.

"Was it very gentle wrestling?" Mary asked, more kindly this time, a little worry entering her voice. "She is still rather little."

"Very gentle," he assured her in a soft tone. "Gracie, your mama has been most severe with us this morning. I think it means she must come and give us a kiss."

Mary rose and wrapped her arm around his neck on the side that Grace wasn't on. "Ma," Gracie murmured, a bit sleepily. "Here's your kiss, darling," she replied and leaned forward to press her lips to the baby's. "And here's yours, darling," she kissed Matthew warmly, his free hand gripping her waist, the sun warming their back. "I love this," he whispered. "Us."

"We should go," Mary replied, "to get the certificate. If we put her in the pram, she'll easily fall asleep."

"Oh, Mary," he replied, a lilt of excitement in his voice as he gave her one last vital squeeze. "Do you think Grace and I ought to change?"

"I'm afraid if we change her, she won't fall asleep and when we go get this certificate, you'll both just have to appear ridiculous."

"Do I appear ridiculous to you?" he asked warmly.

"Only sometimes," she whispered into his ear, and pressed a kiss to his next, before leaving the three way embrace for the pram.

* * *

><p>"But it was so easy," Mary said in a daze only an hour and a half later, her hand on Matthew's elbow, since he insisted on pushing the pram. "We just had to sign some documents stating we weren't presently married, show some ID, and we have an appointment to be married in four days..."<p>

"Well it didn't hurt that you were _Lady Mary Crawley _and that I signed as _the future Earl of Grantham,_" he conceded.

"Yes, I know, but they don't know what that even means, they're just always stupidly impressed by it, silly americans."

"I can't believe that after living here for nearly three years and having an American mother, you would speak of your countrymen that way."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Oh, please, Matthew. You know I'm English through and through."

"I don't know," he teased. "Not even a lady's maid in sight." She pushed at him with her hip.

"Is the baby still asleep?" Matthew asked.

"Yes," Mary said. While she appreciated that Matthew followed her (ridiculous) rules of not speaking of certain things in front of Gracie (though it was obvious she couldn't understand), she was already nervous over what topic would come up.

"It's just that I'm sure one of those telegrams is from Mr. Murray. I asked for a suggestion of a lawyer in New York," her hand squeezed his arm. "I have no details of course. But I hope to go there late and sort out how to make Grace, officially, legally mine."

"Oh," Mary gulped.

"I don't want to upset you but I feel that it's necessary..."

"I just never thought. How stupid of me."

"Not stupid," he said gently. "It's just that I'm a solicitor and these details of the law are my business. So Mary, I must ask you...what name is on the birth certificate?"

"Well Gracie's of course, and mine," but she squeezed her eyes shut after her attempt at a joke. "I had to put unknown for the father. I couldn't..." she whispered. "I just couldn't put anything other than that. I didn't want her to ever know the circumstances. And I didn't want to give him any power over us, even if it was just his name on a piece of paper. I wanted him completely gone from our lives."

"Mary, I'm very sorry that you had to do that then and alone. But for us, this is the best possible situation." He touched the hand on his arm for a moment before returning it to the handle of pram. "This way we can just have my name added to it. If you'd named someone _else,_ we would have had to received his my permission to adopt her." She looked up at him. "This way, there is no question, whenever we return to Downton, that Grace is mine _in every way _and if anyone dares to question the biology of our situation, we have proof otherwise."

Mary was silent for a moment, taking it all in. "Her name _is _Grace Violet Crawley."

"Your name will be too in a few days," he grinned. "Though, Cousin, I don't think you'll have to alter your signature very much."

Mary squeezed his arm again. "But how will it be changed from unknown to your name?" She paused, gripping his arm meaningfully. "The right name."

Matthew smiled. "I have no doubt that Mr. Murrary has found me a lawyer who knows exactly who I am and who the family is, who won't mind doing us this _favor. _I'll just give him some story about how confused women can be after birth and so on and so forth. We'll guffaw back and forth. There may be some money involved and it will be done. Honestly, I hope to go today, depending on what Murray says. I want this taken care of as soon as possible. There is only one other thing...Who else knows for certain that Grace is not biologically..." he just couldn't bear to finish the sentence. He didn't even like to think of it.

"Only Granny and Mama know for certain what happened and they will lie for us without question. Papa knows that there is a baby but Granny fairly reamed him out not to ask about Grace's parentage and as far as I know, in all the letters, he has complied and not asked since Granny practically threatened his life..."

"So I can expect quite the welcome from your father when we return with Grace in my arms then," Matthew tried to laugh but his collar felt tight.

"He loves you. He's always loved you. You're a son to him more than I am daughter to him after I deserted him."

"Mary, I'm sure that's not true."

"Are you?" she raised her eyebrow at him.

By then they'd reached home, and Mrs. Larsen was smoking on the steps of the brownstone in her trousers. "So are you married then?" she asked, in that voice that sounded as if it were rubbed in gravel.

"In four days," Mary told her.

"What are you going to wear?" Mrs. Larsen asked, blowing smoke in the direction out of the baby's pram.

"Oh I'm sure I have something..."

"You must wear white," Mrs. Larsen demanded cooly, puffing on her cigarette.

"We're getting married at the courthouse, Mrs. Larsen and besides, I have a child. It would hardly be appropriate..."

"What would hardly be appropriate is to let that pig of a man, keep you from wearing white," Mrs. Larsen said rather harshly. "I'm sorry to speak of it, since you've never taken me into your confidence over the whole matter, and understandably so," but she didn't seem _that _sorry, "But I've been with you for three years now and I know what I know and I see what I see. Your grandmother isn't here and neither is your mother so I'm telling you. You _will _wear white; you deserve to wear white. I know a place, we'll go tomorrow." (Matthew's gaze went to her trousers)

"Mrs. Larsen..."

"And when that baby," she continued as if Mary hadn't spoken. "Looks at the photograph of her parent's wedding, you will be wearing white and you..." She looked Matthew up and down, her eyes spotting at the grass stains. "Do you have something suitable?"

"I'm sure he does, Mrs. Larsen."

"I'm not sure," she replied in that distinctive voice.

"Didn't I tell you he's going to be an Earl someday?" Mary said, grinning up at Matthew teasingly, and winking at Mrs. Larsen.

"Well lah dee dah," she shrugged unimpressed. "And what will that make you, the Queen of England? We're going shopping tomorrow. Take that baby and put her in her bed and I'll be in to start my cleaning after I finish my ciggy."

Mary lifted the baby and Matthew the pram, neither one of them able to completely stifle their laughter. "I'll take Grace up," she whispered. "You read your telegrams."

"Oh my darling," Mary whispered, so quietly it was just her lips forming the words as she entered the nursery. "Your Papa really is the smartest man I've ever met. We are so lucky to have him." She laid the baby in the crib and left the door ajar. When she came down, Matthew was waiting for her. "I'm going to see the lawyer now. I want this taken care of as soon as possible. Do you have a copy of the original?"

"Yes," she told him, going to the desk, rifling through some files to find it. "Here we are," she handed it to him. "Matthew," she called before he could leave. "Let me fix your collar." He endured her _help _but she knew that the collar was fine. "I only wanted to say that I love you. And such good luck."

"Your lucky charm is in my pocket." And before she could ask or communicate her shock he grinned, took her face in his hands and gave her a light kiss before leaving. Mary went back to the desk to read her letters, the first of which was from Granny. If she had to choose someone she missed the most, it would have to be Granny. Not that she loved Granny more than the rest of them but she just simply adored her wit, the turn of her head, how she could quiet an entire dinner with one sentence. Mary hoped one day to be very much like her and as such had also given Grace her middle name. Moreover, it had been Granny who had been there after...everything and even before, trying to break the entail. She may not know where she stood with the rest of her family, but Granny had made it quite clear that she was on Mary's side. For all those reasons and more, she adored Granny's letters.

_My dearest Mary,_

_And Grace too of course. However, despite your obvious skills, Mary, when it comes to being a mother, I still highly doubt you have taught a one and a half year old to read. But I've been wrong before...Once in the late 1860's, I believe._

_How are you two? Are you still enjoying that horrid New York? I must say that it is beautiful at Downton this time of year, the grass so green, the house so proud. Shall I renew my entreaties to **please **come home? I think I shall and with new vigor as well. _

_First, let me start simply, now I don't wish to alarm you, my dear girl, but I am getting older (gracefully of course) and one never knows what might happen to a person. And really, if I had one **dying **wish it would be to hold Grace Violet Crawley in my arms **before I die. **But don't let me depress you, dear. _

_Also, I really feel as if you miss Downton, at least a little. I can hear it in your letters. How you ask after the family? And even Carson? (who I should also add that while healthy is also getting up in age and I am sure if he knew about Grace it would also be his __**dying wish**__to hold that dear child in his arms and as I said, Mary, one never knows what may happen). You don't have to come forever. But do, please come for a visit. I also have one more argument to add (Please do not think that Cousin Matthew, our family's heir/solicitor is the only one who can form a well though out argument). _

_My final cherry to add is that Sybil is coming and in June and she is bringing little Robbie (she insists I use this nickname and I oblige her though I always thought Robert a fine name in and of itself). She is also bringing that husband of hers who, and perhaps you may hear me sigh all the way across the Atlantic, I have been lectured to call Tom and not Branson. Is it my fault I am a comedian and suggested that if only Ireland and England were connected by land (and of course, if they could afford a car, which they probably can't) Branson could drive them here! (He _is_ an excellent driver). Apparently, Sybil did not take too kindly to that and wrote me making me promise to call Branson Tom and Robert Robbie or she wouldn't come for June (the whole month, they managed, can you believe it?). Now, I know how you have always loved Sybil and preferred her to Edith (maybe it is not fair to say so but I have never been a liar) and I know you would love to spend time with your youngest sister, and maybe a few minutes with Edith. And think of Robbie and Gracie, two cousins, nearly the same age, __**who have never even met, not once. **__Do they not __**deserve **__to know one another, the little American girl and Irish boy? (Oh what has become of this fine English family. Personally, I blame your mother)._

_This is my argument and after reading it over, I think it is a lovely one. I cannot imagine **anyone **with **any** brains in her head denying the fact that I am right and that you must come in June if not before._

_Also, on a slightly different note, I feel I must tell you that Cousin Matthew is...in New York. Not to worry, dear, he isn't looking for you. Just on holiday. But I must remind you, he never did marry...For all his horrid sentimental talk about how much he loved you and needed to see you after you left (of course, I could not be moved to reveal anything, not that I had anything to reveal...and also all those _feelings _he was expressing, it made me dizzy. How could one man feel so much and stand upright at the same time?) All I am doing is warning you, darling. If you want to find Matthew, a kind, gentile man, who has always been true to you (at least since you left...ironically) then find him out, I say! I have always been fond of Matthew, which is a miracle really, considering his mother (haha, my dear, haha). I believe he would still have you. I believe he would still be happy to have you. But, if on the other hand, you wish to avoid such a man, beware of those very particular eyes he owns and keep a watch out._

_Now write me back immediately and tell me that you will come in June. You are a smart girl after all. Haven't I always said? And of course update me on all of Grace Violet's doings. But don't waste too much paper on that, dear, since you **will **be coming in June, if not before. _

_All my love,_

_Granny_

"Oh Granny," Mary murmured, smiling. "Don't ever change."

* * *

><p>Matthew came back not two hours later to find the girls in the kitchen, eating cheese and apples. "So?" Mary asked as soon as she saw him. He kissed the top of her head and then the top of Grace's, who clapped upon seeing him. "It will be done by the end of the week."<p>

Mary closed her eyes in relief. "Oh darling, I also have news."

Matthew stopped in the midst of removing his jacket. "Good or bad?"

She smiled, "Just news. There's a letter from Granny over on the desk I think you should read."

He went and got it and then brought it back to the table so he could sit with them. Grace immediately shoved a piece of cheese in his mouth. "Yum," he muttered and began.

"Cousin Violet is..." Matthew said when he was halfway through.

"Something, dear, the word you're looking for is something," and Mary took a bite of apple from Grace's hand.

He had to laugh out loud when he got to the part about him. "Well at least we know she won't be disappointed that we're married."

"Of course not, that's what she always wanted, even though she could never put her full weight behind the match out of love for me," Mary told him. "I can't tell you all the things she said over the years. I believe she referred to Lavinia as _that little blonde piece._"

"_She _said that?" Matthew asked laughing. Mary nodded, urging the baby to eat some apple, but whose attention was on Matthew trying to feed cheese to him, which he finally took, to Grace's relief. "What do you think about the rest of it?"

"You know," she said with a sigh. "It's the first time out of the millions of times that she's asked that I would even consider it, after talking to you about it of course."

He smiled. He couldn't help it. "Well after dinner and after we put this one to bed, we'll talk about it."

"On the couch, of course" she added, arching her eyebrow.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: So the question of the birth certificate is explained but *if* they go to Downton they will have a lot of explaining to do. How could this baby be Matthew's? And when did they get married again? And oh by the Isobel, you're a granny! All I can promise is that there is a bumpy ride ahead, with some peaks of fluff and happiness. What do you think of this continued domesticity between the three Crawley's? I hope it is believable. And is this wedding actually going to happen? While Mary was doing her hair, she seemed to think it impossible based on their history of constant disappointments...Please review.<em>


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's Note: A few questions/concerns to address. First, I am still sick so this chapter continues to be a little less ambitious. But hopefully you still like it. To _**_double scotch's _**_very well written response to my A/N on Mary asking for forgiveness for Pamuk on the show (see her comment to understand more fully)...I do agree with you. It was very modern (at the time) for Matthew to set it all aside. Many men would not have then. I should have separated the two issues because Matthew calling them cursed bothered me in and of itself. Even if the Pamuk incident never happened, Matthew blaming Mary for helping to kill Lavinia, not cool, man. But thanks for your point and I totally agree. I hope we continue to see a *modern* Matthew and Mary in season three. Don't you? _**_Golden12:_**_ I meant to mention in my last author's note, thank God DNA testing was many years away. Certainly made my life easier. Your reviews are always super insightful and bring up a lot of good points and questions (hint hint). Is Sir Richard gone for good? Well all I can reveal is that, unfortunately, Sir Richard has not, in the past three years dropped dead. _**_Faeyero,_**_ you asked the same question about Sir Richard. And to you I must give the same answer. He is still alive. I can't reveal more than that. Also as to being glad they are waiting for the wedding night...obviously I agree because I'm writing it that way. Ha! As *modern* as they are, you can take the girl out of Downton but not the Downton (totally) out of the girl. Though they are very busy in getting to know each other's bodies, this is purposeful too. No doubt, Mary has a lot of anxiety about the wedding night (wouldn't you in her shoes?) and each time they are together "on the couch" and it ends safely and lovingly lessens her fears, I believe, and also turns her anxiety to a bit of excitement, eh? Your comment also hit the nail on the head. Richard and Pamuk didn't count. And that is why I/Larsen had to insist she wear white! _**_Magley:_**_ thank you for reviewing when you usually don't. It made me so happy to hear that! And don't worry, Violet is my fave to write so you will see a lot of her. Hope to hear from you again. Sorry this is long but if you have a question, I will always do my best to answer it._

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><p>Chapter Eleven<p>

Mary lay back on the couch in her nightgown awaiting Matthew/fiancé/father of her child (could all those things really be true? and would husband be added to the list in few days time?) while Matthew rocked Gracie to sleep and fed Gracie what he called her "night cap." He'd look elated and surprised when she suggested that he do it tonight. "Are you sure?" he asked, like a little boy who was being told he could stay awake past his bedtime.

"Of course, I'm sure." She leaned forward and took his face in her hands, feeling his day's beard, and laid a lingering kiss on his lips. The baby laughed and called for mo' even before they parted. "She's ours now."

Even now, waiting for him on the couch, her arms above her, pillowing her head, her ankles crossed, she felt perfectly comfortable with the arrangement. Gracie did not belong to solely Mary anymore and when she saw the way Matthew grew positively elated over the smallest new task or simple thing he was able to do for or with Gracie or the way Grace looked at him, like he really was a prince from her story books come to life, it wasn't hard to share. It wasn't hard to share at all. Though just a week ago, it would have pained her to admit that there was something to the old maxim that a little girl needs her papa, in Grace's case, she seemed to be blossoming under Matthew's attention. In Matthew's case, she could practically see him lightening after every hour he spent in Grace's company. She had no doubts (and what a strange feeling after having so many for so long) when it came to Matthew truly being Grace's father.

"I'm sorry," Matthew whispered as he climbed a top of her, pressing kisses up the front of her night gown.

"I like seeing you two together. I like knowing that it's just the two of you sometimes, sharing secrets away from Mama," Mary admitted and Matthew, knowing Mary as he did, especially as a mother, knew this was the highest possible praise he could get from her as a mother to a father. _I believe in you immensely, _she seemed to be saying. _I couldn't be here with you if I didn't._

Matthew showed his appreciation by leaning forward and taking her mouth with his, nibbling at first, teasing with her tongue, and then quite suddenly his hands were literally wrapped around her hair, their mouths open, tongues tangled, as he laid between her legs. "We're supposed to talk too," he reminded her breathlessly as he pressed hot kisses to the side of her throat, sucking on her skin. Somehow, she had no idea how, because they were awfully tiny buttons, he'd manage to undo the three at her throat, and he was kissing her there, at her clavicle a little nibble, and then open mouth kisses a few inches down.

"Just take it off," she complained. "I don't care, just take the damned thing off." She felt his smile at her curse (a rarity for her) but she didn't feel like smiling. He shook his head, saying, "Not yet," but to appease her, his hands did go to her breasts, taking her nipples between his fingers while she gasped and tried to move her hips against his, but he was laying so she couldn't.

"We're supposed to talk about that letter," he insisted, his whisper hot against her ear.

"You're doing this on purpose," she complained, when his each of his hands cupped her breasts and began to massage them, leaning up to nip at her lips.

"What, darling?"

"Driving me crazy," she barely got the last word out because there he was again, sucking her own lip into his mouth, his hands moving on her breasts.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, her lip between his teeth as he spoke.

"Of course not, I already told you to take my nightgown off," she replied in a very perturbed _Lady _Mary voice (could _Lady _Mary demand to have a man take off her nightgown? On some level it seemed like quite the oxymoron.)

His hands went to her face, his thumbs brushing across the soft skin there, as their kisses spun out. Her hands which had been restlessly searching for something to _touch _during this entire interlude, went to his wrists, just barely touching. She felt tears at the back of her eyes, in her throat, the way he was kissing her, what he was trying to say with just lips. "Alright now, darling," he whispered against her lips. "We're going up to bed where there are rules to finish this _discussion_. Though you know," he kissed her again, in that aching way, "I would stay here forever if we could."

When he stood, and offered a hand to her, his posture seemed a little different, bent at the waist, as if he were a little uncomfortable. Then he picked her up into his arms and began to carry her up the stairs, his gait still peculiar. "Matthew! Your back!"

He shook his head and shushed her as they neared the nursery. "My back is fine," he insisted gallantly.

"Then why are you walking like that?"

"Like what?" he asked.

"Like you're in pain, and you have this grimace on your face. Am I too heavy? Put me down," she demanded.

He did as she asked, dropping her rather rudely from a high level to the bed so that she bounced. "See! You are walking strangely!" she pointed at him as he walked around the bed to his side.

"I'm not," he said through his teeth. "I'm perfectly fine."

"I told you that you shouldn't have been wrestling today with her, now you're hurt..."

"You think Gracie did this?" he asked incredulously.

"Well who else?"

"You, woman! You think we can do all our couch activities without _any _repercussions? Oh, stop, with your questions," he said, blindly reaching out his hand so the whole thing covered her face. "You don't need to know any of it. I wished you wouldn't even have noticed in the first place. You'll question it to death."

She delicately bit his hand, hard, and he removed it. "Oh and I'm the only curious one?" she asked sitting up. "_Tell me every single detail about labor Mary. Oh and what was that bit about you so enormously fat in the bath tub?"_ she mocked him.He laughed at her, at the pair of them really. "What repercussions?" she insisted.

"Oh, God," he looked up at the ceiling, much like Mary had when talking about a subject that embarrassed her. "When a man becomes...er...aroused," he decided on at last.

"Which you were?" Mary asked, her chin in her hand.

He looked at her dryly. "As I have consistently been since we met here again in New York..."

"No! Really?" but she sounded enormously pleased with herself.

"Anyway," his eyes went to the ceiling. "When a man becomes aroused and he cannot or does not...complete the act...it can be a little painful."

"You've been in pain? Oh my, darling," she murmured and reached over to kiss every part of his face.

"You're breaking a rule," he hissed. "And that doesn't help...the situation...at all." Gently, he pushed her away.

"But...but what can I do?"

"Marry me in three days and not a moment later," he replied with a grin.

"But until then, you'll be in pain. That doesn't seem fair."

"It's not constant and I'll live and that's all I'm going to say about the matter."

She looked down at him. "I'll try that line the next time you start asking me exactly what labor felt like and see if that works on you. But anyway," she gave in, "the letter."

He turned to her so they lay facing one another with a foot of space between them. "Well what do you think of it?" he replied.

"Well, you're to be my husband soon," Mary almost looked shy. "And while I am very stubborn and have a mind of my own, I do wish to know your opinion on this."

"I feel the opposite is true, Mary," he reached out a hand for her and she gratefully took it. "You're the one who has stayed away. You have to be the one to decide when it's alright to go back."

She bit her lip. "I think...I think maybe now may be the time. But listen to my reasons, I really do value your opinion. Particularly because this affects us all, especially Gracie. I was always afraid to go, knowing that even if I very ferociously defended and protected her, that I was still an unmarried woman and that not everyone would obey my wishes. But going back with you, married, and to the heir...I don't think anyone would dare question you."

"Your granny has in the past, though that wouldn't be a problem this time around. My mother also may be a problem. We would have to be resolute. We would say that Gracie is mine, completely and in every way, but what about our marriage? Do we lie about the date? What explains your absence? And me shirking my responsibilities?"

She wet her lips. "Oh! Can't we just say that it's complicated and it's none of their business?"

"We could," he raised an eyebrow. "I don't imagine it going over well. But if stand together in it, both of us refusing to budge, it could work. I believe it could."

She smiled wanly. "The other issue is that...I like my life here with Gracie and now with you too of course. I like that I get to spend most of the day with her. I like that I get to have dinner with her at the table. I like bathing her and being with her. I like letting her run around in her nappy before a bath."

"You must know we are in agreement on all of that as well."

"Yes, Matthew, of course I know," she said gently. "It's one of the many reasons why I love you. But it would't be like that at Downton. I _do _miss home. I always have. But even if I could completely protect Grace there, I never thought I could be the type of mother I wanted to be there."

"And why not?" he asked. "Again, the answer is the two of us. We will be resolute in this. And we will be staying at Crawley house..." he reminded her and she nodded in agreement. "Which is a bit more lax than the big house anyway. But we will be absolutely firm in running _our _family the way we want to. We are her mother and we are her father and that is simply it."

"Granny will have a stroke if we try to bring Grace into the big dining room," Mary commented.

"Well, there may be a few nights, where we eat an earlier dinner with Grace and then put her to sleep before going to the dining room but," he added. "I don't think it is completely impossible that your granny fall completely in love with Grace and demand her presence at dinner. I could tell in the letter. She plans to champion Gracie in all the ways she feels she could not champion you. She is a much softer touch than many people realize."

"Times are changing," Mary said sagely, in an Irish accent, doing a fair impersonation of Tom Branson. "Oh and I am sure Sybil will be our ally in this as well. They don't have a nanny either. And I'm sure...all of us, together can..."

He leaned forward and kissed her so quickly she didn't have the heart to tell him that he'd broken a rule. "If the motto of our time in New York has been _we will practice _then let it be at Downton _together we will be resolute."_

"I'm actually a little excited," she said, her toes tickling his calf. "I'll write to Granny tomorrow and break the news that by the time she get the letter we will be married. And also emphasize the delicacy in the matter. And...Matthew, someone needs to tell your mother that you're bringing a wife and a child to her home."

"You think Cousin Violet is the best option then?" he asked, trying to hide his horror.

She bit her lip and nodded at his reaction. "I really do. I trust Granny with these matters. You don't know all that she done for me. Moreover, you must know that in recent years, they're very nearly friends. Their attempts to embarrass one another are all in good fun...or mostly good fun. And I will prevail upon Granny's good nature that she must be as gentle with your mother as possible in announcing that we are married and that we have a child."

"I can't say I'm unhappy to miss that conversation," Matthew commented, offering Mary a cozy haven beneath his arm.

She scooted into place, giggling. "Me either. And I will ask Granny to get a hold of a crib, a changing table, a high chair..."

"A pram," Matthew added sleepily. "A rocking chair. You know she will spoil her rotten."

Mary yawned. "I believe that if one lives long enough to see one's great grandchildren grown one has every right to spoil them. I certainly plan on spoiling ours."

He smiled into her hair, his heart aching at her words in the best way, before reaching over to turn off the light. "I will remind you when Violet shows up at the train station with a pony and a puppy and giraffe."

"Well, not a giraffe," Mary laughed. There was companionable silence between them now in the dark.

"Darling?" she asked in the dark. "I know we have a no wiggling rule but I just have to adjust..."

"It's not as important of a rule when we are laying like this."

She hummed in her throat. "Perhaps you could explain the particulars of that to me once we are married. Goodnight, darling."

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><p><em>Author's Note: Sorry it was a little shorter but I actually really had fun writing this one. What do you think? Look for a few surprises next chapter...Thank you SO SO much for the comments. There would be no way to keep up this pace without them. They really motivate and inspire me, have me questioning some of my choices in the best way. So speak up. xx<em>


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's Note: So there have been some problems with the website that they are working out. You may not have been getting update notifications but you should be now. Hey and guess what? I'm still hacking away sick so expect more today. **Golden12: **loved your comment. Yes, they have decided to go with the nunyabiznass line. Your reference to the Godfather (one of my favorites) is perfect. Unfortunately, Sir Richard will not be sleeping with the fishes. As for what Richard can do, well, I think Richard has surprised us all at the lengths he will go to be an utter a-hole. _

_Just a reminder, Julian Fellows made all these little guys and they belong to him. Except for Grace and Mrs. Larsen. They are mine. :)_

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><p>Chapter Twelve<p>

The next morning Mary woke alone...again. This time, even finding the note beside her, she was quite perturbed.

_Lovely Mary,_

_I've taken Gracie Girl to the park to feed the ducks. There will be no "gentle wrestling," I promise you. Sorry to slip away but I thought Grace and I could give you some peace and quiet while writing to your Granny. _

_Love, Matthew and Gracie_

"Oh, you coward," she hissed. But nonetheless she got up and dressed and then went down to the writing desk to begin her task...alone.

_Dear Granny,_

_I do hope you are sitting down._

_Are you?_

_Well then, I am happy first to tell you that I will come in June to Downton. I will send you a telegram noting the exact date and time once I have booked passage for us._

_Granny, are you sure you are sitting down?_

_Only because, it won't just be me coming. By the time you get this letter, Matthew and I will be married. Oh, it is still so strange to say aloud or even write down. But in a few days time, yes, we will be man and wife. Granny, I wish you could see him with Grace. And you will, and soon! He's fixed everything; he is so clever you know. He's changed the birth certificate so it has his name on it and everything. He's trying to teach her to call him Papa. He dotes on her and she looks at him with adoration. In **every **single way, Matthew is Gracie's father. I am certain. I don't think that I could be more sure of it._

_I really hope you were sitting down when you read that last paragraph, Granny._

_Though we are excited to come for June (perhaps for the summer, depending on how things are) the changes in our...family status bring up a few difficulties. I care nothing for what people think of me. I used to, as I think you know. But that all changed when...it is Gracie I care about and Gracie I want to protect and I know that I can trust you with this as I can trust no other. You see, Matthew **is **Gracie's father, do you understand? And Matthew and I (by the time we reach Downton) **are **married. And the timing of things, for Gracie's sake, cannot be clear to anyone. I must ask you again for discretion and subterfuge at the same time. If anyone questions the timing of things, you must put them off, and if that cannot be done, I implore you to...well, lie. This also means that you must go to Mama, with what I have explained. I know she is not as good of a liar as you are (I mean that as a compliment to you) but you **must **make her aware of the necessity of this for Grace's sake. There is a **great **deal at stake for her. Also, if you could break the news to Papa, that Matthew and I are married, and that we have a daughter (in that order, please). If he is upset or objects, if he wonders why I left, or why Matthew hasn't been involved then Matthew and I have bravely, for Grace's sake, decided to take up the mantra of, "That is none of your business." In the worst case scenario, delay his questions for Matthew and I and we will handle it. Or try to. The funny thing is, all the reasons and fears I had when it came to returning to you all, are so much put to rest with the knowledge that Matthew will be beside me. _

_Finally, I must ask you one last favor. This is the hardest of all, perhaps. You must go to Cousin Isobel and tell her that she not only has a daughter in law (feel free to be hazy about when that wedding exactly took place) but that she has a grandchild who is one and half years old. Granny, please be gentle with her. Can you even imagine what she will feel when you explain this to her? Tell her that we are coming in June and will be staying with her at Crawley house, that Matthew will be writing to her soon, that we will explain it when we see her (though we don't plan to explain it **all** to her. We don't want anyone to know the true details of what happened so many years ago than absolutely necessary and for now that is only you and Mama and even knowing that, in my heart, in Gracie's heart, and on paper, Matthew **is **Grace's father. When you hear him talk of it, I know you will see that he believes it too). Granny, I cannot express how important it is that you are gentle with her. Not only must a room be prepared for Matthew and I (we can simply use whatever he had before) but a room must be made up for Grace. Can I also prevail upon you to find a crib, a changing table, a pram, a baby's high chair, and...a rocking chair? I know that is an awful lot but it can be used. It need not be fine. If it were for me, I would ask for nothing! But baby's do come with a lot of accessories. _

_Granny, I cannot express to you how much I love you and how thankful I am for **all **that you've done for us over these years. I know that I can trust you completely and that is why Grace's middle name could be none other than Violet, the strongest, smartest, bravest woman I know (I am sucking up but it is true nonetheless). I hope that you are happy with the news. I believe, if things go well, we may be prevailed upon to stay for the summer...and then...and then I do not know. But the exciting thing is that you are going to meet Grace Violet. I hope she lives up to all your expectations and I believe she will. Finally, and I feel like a spy for even asking, please destroy this letter after reading it. It's Grace's future we hold in our hands, you and I, and Matthew too. We must tread as carefully as we can._

_All our love,_

_Matthew, Mary, and Grace_

Matthew returned with a sleeping Grace in his arms not soon after that. He went right up to the nursery without so much as a glance at her, and Marry followed quite huffily, the letter in her hand. When he left the nursery the door ajar, she grabbed hold of his cuff and dragged them into their (she didn't understand why she had to call it that when he couldn't even manage to wake beside her) room. "Read this, please," she said. "I would like to know your opinion before I send it."

He seemed not notice the way her eyes were narrowed and that she was tapping her foot rather rapidly. He took it from her, reading it with a quiet smile on his face, nodding every now and then. "Why, darling," he said. "It's just perfect." And then he leaned in to kiss her.

"I don't feel much like kissing you right now, Matthew Crawley."

He thought she was joking, she had to be, after he entreaties to _please just take my nightgown off _the night before so he leaned again and she...she bit his lip. "Ow," he cried.

She moved away from him. "When we are married, do you plan on never waking beside me? I'm not just trying to get my expectations in order." It was funny really, since she used to think it so embarrassing the way her parents shared a bed.

"Mary," he murmured in that consoling way of his, coming near to reach for her hand.

She dodged him. "No, no. I want my question answered."

He looked pain. "Can't I promise that once we are married I will wake next to you?"

"Does that mean it has to do with our rules?" she replied in that stubborn way of hers.

Grimacing, he laced his hands together. "In a round about way."

"In what round about way?"

"It's only that in the morning...when I wake beside you...it is much harder, it's impossible for me to follow the rules...I'm more..."

Maybe it was the fact that he seemed to be so adorably uncomfortable that had her supplying, "You're more randy then? In the mornings?

"Mary," his eyes went to the ceiling. "How in the world do you even know that word?"

"I did live in a house full of officers for quite awhile. I know a few other words you would be surprised to hear too. But I won't bother you with those now."

"Mary," he repeated, stepping closer to her and taking her face into his hands. "I don't leave in the morning because I don't want to be there. I leave because I so desperately want to stay."

She looked at him, tilting her head, examining his answer and in the end, it seemed to please her because she leaned forward and kissed him, softly, in apology. His hands moved from her face to her hair, knocking aside pins. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself to him, as she always seemed to want to, need to do and before they knew it they were taking steps backwards towards the bed, her thighs hitting the edge, and the both of them following onto the already made up covers. But they didn't stop and they didn't mention rules. One of Matthew's hands dragged itself out of her hair to slide down the side of her body, to rub one hardened nipple and then to her hip and thigh, pulling her skirt up with his fingers, until he could touch the skin above her garter, to grasp it in his hand. She wanted to gasp and groan but she didn't want to stop kissing him because then he would say something like _we must stop_ and she did not want to stop. She did not want to stop at all.

In the end it was Mrs. Larsen, calling from down the hall, smart enough not to walk towards the open bedroom door. "Lady Mary, it's time for us to find you a wedding dress."

They pulled away from each other immediately. Matthew very gentlemanly smoothing her skirt. "I'm sorry," he whispered, against her ear. "I just broke every rule we've had."

She stood a bit wobbly and pulled Matthew up with her. She rested her hands on his hips and whispered in his ear, her breath hot: "I don't care. I love you. I want you." And then with a little squeeze to his midsection she was off, adjusting her blouse as she went, sticking pins back in so that by the time she met Mrs. Larsen at the top of the stairs she looked perfectly presentable, although Mrs. Larsen laughed at her anyway.

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><p>The next morning Mary woke up earlier than normal. It was the day before her wedding and she had a wedding dress and even, upon Mrs. Larson's insistence, bought something for the wedding night. It was all happening, really happening. She turned her head to look at Matthew, who lay asleep beside her, on his back, one hand low on his stomach, and she smiled, her fingers itching to touch, her body wanting, wanting, wanting. Then she was shimmying across the bed, lying on top of him.<p>

"What?" he asked before she pressed her open mouth to his and before he could think about rules his arms were banded around her and she could feel, against her leg, that he did wake particularly randy.

"Now," she said, around kissing him, nipping at his lips, sucking and pulling. "I'm about to break a lot of rules and I don't want any complaints from you." She teased her tongue with his and brought her own hands to the waist band of his pajamas and freed him. If that stunned him, her small hand around him, had him groaning so loudly she nearly laughed but instead opened her mouth over his to absorb it. It felt delicious and she could feel him growing larger and hotter in her hand. "Now I've never done this before," she admitted as she started to stroke him. "So perhaps you could...help me a bit." His hand covered hers, wrapping her fingers firmly around him, and sliding their joint hands up and down. It was so interesting and delicious really how the skin slid but beneath it he was so hot and hard and she made a humming sound in her throat. He could not even be prevailed upon to kiss her back anymore; he simply did not have the faculties. He leaned his head back, his own hand falling away, while he groaned, and trembled a bit. "Mary," he gasped. "What?" she replied. "Should I...?" Then she began to pump him all the more quickly back and forth. She felt so powerful, so proud, that he wanted her this much, that she could do this to him. "Mary," he groaned. "Stop." "Why?" she asked, only increasing her pace. "Because I'm going to...to..." She kissed his neck. "That's perfectly alright. You just go ahead." And he did.

She stopped moving her hand after he finished, but she kept her finger around him, holding him gently, less firmly, for just a moment longer, before taking her hand and wiping it on the side of the bed, on the sheet. She kissed him then again, making a sound deep in her throat with great pleasure. "Was it alright? Was it okay?" she asked. "I've never..."

"Mary," she could tell he was parched, his head leaned back, still lightly panting. "Any better and I think I would have died. But you didn't have to..."

"I wanted to," she whispered into his ear. "I liked it." She felt him shudder, almost like an aftershock. "But it's back to the rules now, you know. Until our wedding night."

He took a deep breath. "Good thing that's tomorrow night then."

The baby began to cry. She pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "I'll get her. You clean up. I'll ask Mrs. Larsen to clean the sheets later today." She thought it best not to add that it had been Mrs. Larsen's suggestion in the first place, yesterday after Mary had broken down, just _so _worried that she had caused him any type of pain.

He nodded, or at least he thought he did, as she flitted out, practically skipping in her nightgown. He on the other hand, had to lay on the bed like a dead man for a few more minutes, before he could move.

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><p><em>Author's note: So what do we think of Mary's letter to Granny? Is Granny up to the task? Can it be done? And what do we think about this *new* (Is she really new?) Mary? Please review. I'll do my best to post if I can get enough motivation and the cough syrup doesn't put me to sleep, and the next chapter is their wedding and wedding night! xx<em>


	13. Chapter 13

_Author's Note: So the site is being so lame today. Not cool. But I forged ahead, chugging my cough syrup and drinking my fluids. Or was it the other way around. I am terribly nervous about this chapter. I feel like it's all been leading up to this and I don't want Matthew or Mary to be let down. Also, ahem, this story is my first time writing anything graphic, from the doorway, to the dresser, to couch...I just haven't admitted it but now I am because I need some major reassurances or critique for the future. To **Mediawatchgirl: **I know it is tempting for them to stay in NY but remember it is only April. They aren't going until June. Plus, I will give you this promise that when they go back to Downton, they will be different there than they ever have been before. They won't be able to move backwards after this time in NY and believe me, the family at Downton will notice... Okay to chapter thirteen which is supposedly unlucky but in which Matthew and Mary get lucky. I swear I did not plan it that way ;)_

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><p>Chapter Thirteen<p>

"Look, Gracie," Matthew murmured in her ear, the baby's dark curls tickling his nose. "Mama is sleeping."

"Ma," Gracie whispered back, mimicking her father.

He pressed a kissed to the side of her head and was it his imagination or did she lean into him a little more. "Shall we wake her up this morning? We have so much to do."

"Do, do, do, do," Gracie repeated. For her part, Mary was still very much asleep, snuggled deep in the covers, one arm reaching across the bed for...for him, Matthew realized. Matthew leaned the baby down close to Mary, holding her very carefully. "Ma, Ma, Ma," the baby babbled, and batted at her mother's hair. With no response she grew more insisted, "Ma! Ma! Ma!"

Languidly, Mary turned, smiling before she opened her eyes. She moved towards the middle of the bed so Matthew could sit and the baby could cuddle up next her. "Why, who's this?" Mary asked, voice groggy still. "Who is this little girl?"

"Me!" Gracie told her very seriously if not quite forcefully.

"Oh, you," Mary murmured as if she'd forgotten. "Well I love _you_." She pressed kiss after kiss to the baby's face, anywhere she could reach, while Grace giggled and tried to wiggle away. "Did Papa wake you up or did you wake up Papa?"

Grace's eyebrows came together in concentration, her mouth opening, and closing and then finally opening as wide as it could go. She exhaled a little breath and her lips came together before she said, "Ah!"

Matthew who'd been staring at both of them very fondly suddenly felt Mary's hand on his wrist. "She's saying Pa. She's saying Pa."

Matthew started to laugh. "No, she isn't."

"I'm telling you," Mary said stubbornly. "That's how she starts saying a lot of her new words. Watch her mouth. She's making the p sound silently. Watch."

"I didn't know you were so proficient in phonetics," he replied, a little sullenly because he very badly did want Grace to call him Papa.

"Watch!" Mary demanded then she turned to Gracie and met her eyes. "Where is Mama?" she asked and Gracie gestured quickly towards Mary, as if she were saying, _really haven't we gone over this before._ "Gracie, where is Papa?" Mary asked this time. Gracie swiveled on the bed, climbing over her mother's legs, to reach out her arms for Matthew. "Ah, Ah!" she cried and sure enough he could see that she was trying her hardest, struggling to make that p sound, that it was coming out silently but that indeed, "Ah" referred to him and was the precursor to "Pa."

He felt tears prick the back of his eyes as he took her in his arms. "Oh, Gracie. You've made this the best day." His voice broke, just a little. "The very best day."

Mary leaned back and smiled smugly. "She's very smart you know. I bet it won't be one or two days until she's not just exhaling the _p _sound so much as saying it. Mark my words."

Matthew leaned forward to kiss her gently on the lips. "Forgive me for not believing you. You have much more experience than I." She wound one arm loosely around his neck and while the baby muttered, "Ah! Ah! Ah!" working hard at her words, Mary kissed him again and whispered, "Happy wedding day, Papa."

"Happy wedding day," he whispered back, giving her another quick kiss. "But now you have to get ready. We have to go buy the wedding bands."

"Matthew," she replied gently, though she did get out of bed. "You do know that the ceremony is not until four o'clock."

"I know but I just want everything to be perfect," he insisted.

"But everything isn't going to be perfect," she retorted. "We have an eighteen month old. She's going to drool on my wedding dress or your suit or cry through the ceremony or get something on the beautiful dress we got her."

"I won't begrudge her any of those things," he laughed. "But I will begrudge you if you don't get a move on." He gave her bottom a little swat. "I think we should hurry and go, get the bands, and then come back to change."

"Alright," Mary called from the bathroom.

"And Mrs. Larsen and...her friend have agreed to be our witnesses?"

"Yes, Matthew," she called.

"And..."

"Matthew," Mary said, leaning her head out of the bathroom to meet his eyes. "Everything will be alright."

"How are you so calm?" he complained.

"Because you're so nervous," she retorted as she stuck pins in her hair. "If I was nervous, you would calm me down, wouldn't you?"

* * *

><p>Matthew's favorite jeweler was all ready for them. "Congratulations," he said to Mary. "I hope you enjoy the ring."<p>

"Oh, I do!" she replied enthusiastically. "It's perfect! The most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Well your husband to be certainly knew exactly what he wanted," the man informed her and Matthew and Mary shared a fond smile. "Now what can I do for you today?"

"We know not everyone chooses to do so, but we'd like wedding bands, something simple for me, and something for Mary as well," Matthew related.

The mustached man gave Gracie a wink. "Well Sir, I think I have something your fiancé would like very much. I don't have as much selection for wedding bands for men since not everyone chooses to wear one. But I do have something that I think would please you."

"Matthew first please," Mary asked. She raised her eyebrow at the man. "I want to make sure he remembers who he belongs to."

The man laughed and brought Matthew a simple, masculine, platinum band which fit. "Well that was easy," Matthew cheered.

"Matthew?" Mary asked. "Would you mind taking the baby and just walking her outside a bit? I don't want her to become fussy in here." He looked at her strangely but obliged. "Sir," she said to the jeweler, "How quickly could you have this engraved for him? In the time it took for me to pick out my band?" she asked eagerly, a plea in her eyes. "And I very much want to pay for this band myself," she added.

"It depends what you want engraved," the man asked.

"Oh," Mary let out softly. "I only hoped, if it could be done, that it could read _Thank you."_

"I'll see that it's done and quickly." Mary handed the money over to the man. "I'll go delay them a bit and then we'll come back to choose something for me." She smiled. "Thank you so much, sir."

She found them outside, the baby in Matthew's arms, as he pushed the pram along and she babbled out words. "And then what happened, darling?" he asked her. Mary wondered if it would always be like this, falling more in love with him over the silliest moments, watching him rock Grace, seeing the emotion wash over him when she recognized him as Papa. "Did you choose something?" he asked.

"No, I was waiting for you two," she said. She wanted to cry sometimes, when she looked at the two of them together. _Lady _Mary did not cry, ever, and if she did it was in quiet corridor or in her room where no one could see. But Mary the mother cried often, the first time Grace cut herself on a rock, when Grace was teething and wailing in pain, even when Grace took her first steps. And Mary, the wife seemed just as emotional, watching her husband with their daughter, the way he could take Mary's face into his hands and kiss her so achingly slow that everything around her stopped and they were the only two people in the entire world. But she swallowed her tears. It wasn't the time. _Lady _Mary knew that.

Matthew's box was waiting for him. "The lady already took care of it," the jeweler informed Matthew. Grace gasped, holding her hands to her mouth, when he actually made that white mustache move back and forth for her benefit. "Mary..." Matthew began to argue.

"No, no," she insisted. "We are traditionalists. And this is the wife's duty," she said with a twinkle in her eye.

The jeweler pushed a velvet box filled with a few bands towards her. "Here are some options for you." She tried ring after ring on with her engagement ring but after several attempts she had to admit, "Maybe I just like the engagement ring by itself?" she suggested. "It is so beautiful."

"Darling, I know you prefer symmetry, why not try two bands, on either side of the engagement ring?" Matthew asked, bouncing Grace a bit in his arms.

"Oh I couldn't..." But with eye contact between the jeweler and Matthew the jeweler simply took off her engagement ring, slipped on a simple diamond band, put her engagement ring back on, and then added a matching diamond band at the end.

"Ooooh!" Gracie clapped. "Ma, ma, ma, ma!"

"It's settled then," Matthew grinned.

"Matthew," she whispered to him. "It's too much."

He took her hand, squeezed it. "It really isn't though. It really isn't."

* * *

><p>Mrs. Larsen and a man as large as she was tiny, named Mr. Davies, were waiting for them at the house. "I think," Mrs. Larsen began in that distinctive voice. "That you two should dress the baby. Then I'll mind her while you two get ready."<p>

"Oh we couldn't ask you to..."

But Mr. Davies was already wiggling his ears, making Grace laugh. She'd met so many interesting people today.

Gracie's dress was pink and it did take some teamwork to get her into it. "Why would they put these little pearl buttons on a baby's dress?" Matthew asked irritated.

"Well I suppose because this isn't a dress a baby wears everyday," she teased back then she looked up at him, arching one of her eyebrows. "Don't worry. My dress doesn't have little buttons like this." Matthew swallowed, leaned over to press a quick kiss to her cheek, near her ear. "We've got to get married, fast," he whispered. Then they were both laughing as they got the baby into the sleeves. "Ma! Ah!" she squealed. Matthew went to get ready in the bathroom and Mary brought the baby down to Mrs. Larsen and Mr. Davies. "Well she looks very fine," Mr. Davies chortled.

"Thank you for doing this," Mary said and then went up into the bedroom to put her own dress on. It was simple, white with flowing lines, and different layers of a more sheer fabric ending at different levels, starting at her hips all the way down to just, daringly above her ankle. There was a satin ribbon just above her waist in a silver color. There were capped sleeves, completely sheer and daringly, most of the back was sheer as well. She took the pins out of her hair because she would need to redo it. "Matthew," she called. "I need the mirror..." she was surprised at how quickly he opened the door. "I need to do my hair..." But he clearly had no interest in her hair since his eyes were busy taking in every single inch of her.

"You look...You look..."

"I look a mess," she interrupted him, impatiently. "My hair is a mess."

It was falling loose and long over her shoulders. "I wish you could wear it down," he whispered. Then he took her hands in his and pressed one of those aching kisses to her lips. _This is one of those moments, _Mary thought, _where I, impossibly, fall more in love with you. _"You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Ever," Matthew finally completed his thought. "And of course, as my future wife, you may share the mirror with me." He was finishing his tie, making fun of himself, how used to Mosely he'd gotten, when at first he'd refused the help. So they stood in the mirror together, Mary pinning her hair, Matthew fixing his tie, like man and wife already really. Her engagement ring sparkled against her hair. Sometimes, when she glanced up at her own reflection to approve a piece of hair, she caught him gazing at her in such a way that it made her want to lean forward and grab hold of the counter to keep upright. Then a few moments later, he would catch her looking at him, a faint blush covering her cheeks, her eyes rushing shyly down. It may have been the most intimate moment between them yet.

Finally he asked, "Are you ready?"

She felt like she needed a glass of water. "Yes. Are you?"

"Yes," he replied, while she place her hand on his arm. It was so strange how in the shortest of conversations the two of them seemed to be able to convey so much.

* * *

><p>They had to wait in line for their turn, and Matthew and Mary grinned at each other knowingly, if only the family at Downton could see them now, waiting in line to be married. Then when they walked in, Mrs. Larsen held Gracie who fussed for a moment but then calmed down when she saw her parents weren't actually leaving her. Mr. Davies awkwardly held both wedding band boxes. Mary and Matthew turned and faced one another, her hands held gently in his. It was exactly how Mary said it would be, imperfect.<p>

But then the judge started to speak and Matthew and Mary stared into one another eyes . Though a part of them were listening to his words, even repeating some of them at times, it was the memories they could see in one another's eyes, banding them together, more than any judge or any clergyman ever could.

_Remember that time, _Matthew's eyes seemed to say, _when you came to invite me to dinner and I made a fool out of myself, refusing to marry one of the Earl's daughters only to find the most lovely woman I'd ever seen standing in front of me?_

_Remember that time, _Mary eye's returned, _when you told me that I mattered? That I mattered a great deal? And you took my hand and it was as if you were first man to ever touch any part of me? And somehow, I knew then, that you would be the last as well._

_Remember laughing together at dinner..._

_Remember arguing on our bench..._

_Remember when I asked if you were a creature of duty and we kissed on and on and your proposed the first time..._

_Remember when we fought, with tears in our voices, in the garden, when you asked if I loved you enough to spend your life with you..._

"I do," Mary responded to the question with as strong of voice as she could manage.

_Remember when I wished you such good luck..._

_Remember when you sat beside my bed, the only one to tell me the truth..._

_Remember when we danced, us, the show that flopped..._

_Remember when you were my stick..._

_Remember when you shook Gracie's hand for the first time..._

_And held her..._

_And you loved us..._

"I do," Matthew replied to the judge.

Before they knew it, they were married, but not because of the judge, not because of the long, thrillingly long kiss at the end, that made her toes curl, or the rings they exchanged, but because the strands of memories, turning, swirling, magically around them, and the ones to come, binding them, forever, to one another.

But when they got home, they weren't two young newlyweds who could rush up to bed. They were two parents with a baby to feed and put to bed. They changed into their normal clothes, since Grace had recently begun to throw food with some regularity (Mary blamed Matthew) and put Gracie into her pajamas.

Then the three of them sat around the table eating the dinner that Mrs. Larsen had prepared. Mary pulled apart the tender chicken into tiny strips that Gracie gobbled up and fed some to Matthew also so he had grease on his chin and Mary laughed. There were peas for Grace to eat and potatoes for them all. A salad for the adults. Even a little cake Mrs. Larsen prepared, Grace's first taste of something so sweet which she _nom nom nom-ed _on for quite awhile, until they realized she'd had at least three pieces. The whole time Matthew and Mary would catch each other's glance, could feel the wanting between them. But they were parents. Matthew leaned over and kissed a bit of frosting off of Mary's mouth with a flick of his tongue and she fed him a piece of cake much as Gracie did. "You take her up," Mary murmured. "I'll clean up and then I'll be up to give her a bath. I'm afraid she will need one tonight." They both glanced at the baby, who clapped her frosted hands together, and grinned with a face full of cake, even in her hair.

So Mary cleaned, her body, not her nerves humming. She felt like she was waltzing as she went back and forth between the table and the sink, with the dishes. She felt as if she were floating or flying. He'd already started to bathe the baby but gave her a grateful look that she would be there for the hair washing. "Matthew," she teased. "Do you get this nervous when you have to wash your hair?" He glared up at her but with his free hand, wet with suds, he began to trace patterns along her ankle and then up her calf.

"Here you are darling," Mary coughed, holding out the towel to Gracie. "Ma!" The little girl cried and reached up for her mother, Mary wrapping the towel around her, breathing in the scent of a clean baby. "Would you mind...if I...tonight?" Mary asked Matthew but there was only adoration as he nodded and pressed a kiss to Mary's lips and then a kiss to Gracie's head. "Goodnight, my girl," he said.

They went one way towards the nursery and he towards the bedroom. He felt as if he were shaking and that was because...well he was shaking. Should he just wait for her on the bed? Should he change into his pajamas? In the end he went to the drawer where he kept his night clothes (without being asked Mary had made room for him) and the drawer was filled with dozens of candles, a packet of matches, and a note from Mrs. Larsen.

_I imagine that you know how to light a candle, Earl._

He smiled and began to set up the candles around the room then lit them. "What's all this?" Mary asked when she entered.

He smiled. "Mrs. Larsen."

"Well, I have something to change into it," she said shyly, removing a bag from the closet.

"Alright," and somehow his voice was calm and even though his heart was thumping so loudly he was sure she could hear. "I'll wait here." When she was gone, he decided to change into his pajamas. After all, they were going to bed. They were going to bed, _to bed, to bed, to bed. _He felt dizzy and hot. Then he turned, and she was standing there, her feet bare, in a silk robe that ended at her knees, one he'd never seen before. "Mrs. Larsen," she explained sheepishly.

"She's quite the romantic, then," Matthew gulped.

Mary walked towards him. Later, this would mean the world to him, that she would be the one to close the door, and walk on her bare feet to him, that she felt fearless. "I don't want to talk about Mrs. Larsen," she whispered and looked up into his eyes. "But there is something under it too." So with trembling hands, Matthew undid the knot of the rob, the slippery fabric sliding cool in his hands. He raised his hands to her shoulders, gave the fabric the barest of pushes, and it fell from her to the floor in a pool of silk. She'd taken her hair down (for him, he knew, as much as for her own comfort) and his hands slid into it. "God," he whispered, and pressed his lips to hers. Dimly, he could hear the slick sound the sheer silk of her nightdress (shorter even than the robe) made against the belly of his pajamas. Her arms came around him, hanging loosely. "I'm nervous," he whispered into her mouth, a secret.

"Whatever for?" she whispered back. Later, he would remember this too, that after everything, she could not think of a single reason to be nervous.

He kissed her, his hands completely lost in all that hair, and felt his world revolve, as she tightened her hands around him, and kissed him back. "You're so beautiful. It makes me..clumsy," he admitted, again into her mouth, as if she were eating his breaths, breathing him in.

"Don't be nervous," she whispered back. Later he would remember that _she_ reassured him. "I have complete faith in you.

That was enough. She always knew the perfect thing to say. He unwound his hands from her hair and pressed them around her waist, could feel through the silk that she wasn't wearing anything underneath the short nightdress. "It seemed superfluous," she laughed quietly. "Under the circumstances." Then her hands were on his face and she was pressing herself to him, standing on her tip toes, she could feel all the more strongly how he wanted her, and she realized that she _wanted _him inside of her. In the meantime, she sucked on his lip, the way he always did to her and he groaned like she always did, moving his hands down so they cupped her bottom, urging her up so they were even more aligned, and before either one of them knew it, her legs were wrapped around his waist, like that first night, only this time bare just as he had fantasized, only this time instead of the door, he was carrying her towards the bed, laying her there, her dark hair all around her. "Wait," she murmured, groaning as she forced herself to pull her lips away from his and so she could roll them over, as if they weren't already dizzy.

She straddled his lap and began to unbutton the top of his pajamas and the way she was sitting on him, it was so delicious, so perfect, his hands dug into her hips in a way that had her inwardly cheering _he wants me, he wants me. _She couldn't help moaning as automatically her hips began to roll. "Oh my," she said, leaning back so her throat was one long line.

He reared up to suck on it, to bite and nibble, sliding the sleeves of his shirt off as he went. Then with hands as gentle as he could make them, pulling the top of her dress down, so her breasts were bared to him. She fell against him; they fell against the pillows. She wanted to feel his skin against hers. It was more, so much more, than she dreamt it would be. They both moaned simultaneously then laughed breathlessly.

He rolled them again so he was on top, kissing her neck, taking her bare breasts in his hands, rubbing them and then the nipples, taking those between his fingers as they hardened, all the while kissing, sucking down her neck. Then one of her breasts was in his mouth and she cried out, her hands clutching his hair, the other breasts not left out, massaged by his hand. She moaned so long it nearly embarrassed her and he switched his mouth to the other breast and his hand as well. "Well I have been telling you to take the damned nightgown off for some time now," she said so breathlessly she wasn't sure if he heard but then she felt his smile, felt his exhale of a laugh. Though his mouth remained where it was, his hands moved down, to where her nightgown had gathered near her belly button and pulled it all the way off, kicking it towards the end with his feet. "Well there darling," he murmured, looking up at her, his mouth all swollen, his eyes half lidded as if he might go to sleep. But she knew he wouldn't, not with the way he was pressing so hard and hot into her thigh, not with the way everything was so taunt between them.

She pulled him up by his hair for more kisses. "But now it's not fair," she complained into his mouth. "You're wearing too many clothes." With her fingers and her toes she inched his pants off and he kicked them to the end of the bed. "Fair's fair," he replied. _Would it be now, _she wondered, the first bit of anxiety starting. But Matthew only went on kissing her with those drugging kisses, stroking every part of her, his hands so gentle and then again she realized _but I want him inside me. _She lifted her hips, planting her feet, rubbed that part of herself which was so wet against the length of him and he groaned and bit her shoulder. "Matthew," she begged. Later he would remember that too, how eager she was, how she wanted them to be together that desperately.

He placed his hands on either side of her face, holding her there so that they were looking at each other, while she took him in her hands again and led him inside of her. So when he pushed, all the way inside of, filling her completely, it was only the blue of his eyes she could see, the obvious desire in them, and the love as well. Her mouth fell half open as he began to move and he leaned forward to (oh god) suck on her lip and she cried out, taking her hands and clutching at his back. "Oh Matthew," she murmured, as his face found her neck and he continued to move, and move, fast, then slow, then fast again. She felt like she was dying but in the best possible way that any person would ever die. "Mary," he whispered, pressing little kisses to her throat and her clavicle. Their legs tangled. "I love you," he mouthed against her throat because he had no voice left. She moaned and groaned, a part of her embarrassed by the sounds she could not seem to control, but the wanton part of her wanted to scream and shriek and before she knew it she was, her whole world breaking apart. "Mary," Matthew whispered and with a few more thrusts, even deeper this time, he fell against her, his whole weight deliciously on top of her, weighing on her, so she wrapped her arms and legs around him.

"Mmmm," she moaned low in her throat, as if she'd just eaten an entire bowl of strawberries and cream.

He was still inside of her, the both of them still pulsing and throbbing. He grunted and then rolled them so that she was on top. "I'm too heavy," he mumbled in such a way that she could barely understand him.

"Matthew," she whispered after a moment, brushing his hair off of his sweaty forehead. "Matthew." She began to kiss him all over his face. "Are you alive?"

"No," he grunted again, taking one hand and stroking it from her back all the way down her bottom, resting it on the back of her knee. "You've killed me, woman."

"Is that what one says to his wife on their wedding night?" she teased, moving her kisses to his throat.

His eyes opened to slits. "I meant it as a compliment," he replied, then lifted her up by the armpits so they were face to face, both of their eyes lazy, their smiles foolishly dazed with pleasure, both moaning a little as they came apart. "I love you, Mary. I love you. You're perfect."

"Perfect?" she teased some more. "Can I use this quotation during our next argument?"

"Let me rephrase," said the solicitor. "You're perfect at this."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Okay here is the thing. I am literally biting my nails about this chapter. Please, please, please, even if you never have, even if you think it is horrid, tell me what you think. FOR REAL! xx<em>


	14. Chapter 14

_Author's Note: First off, I do have to warn you that this story is rated M and that this chapter is definitely rated M. If you didn't have a problem with the last chapter, you won't have a problem with this chapter. It's more just a continuation of their wedding night, and navigating that with a baby. But if the end of the last chapter wasn't for you, then neither will this one.** RCFAN2007:**_ _very astute response when it comes to them coming back to Downton. Both Matthew and Mary will be getting it, from but from different sources *hint.* And yes, I think I can safely say that Richard will reappear in this story. **Claretdreams:**_ _No, you are right, I believe. It was the first time that he was mentioned as Papa casually. He and Mary had mentioned it before but there was always some hesitation. Now, it's just fact. I almost add that there is a scene here that is 100% dedicated to **URMYSTICK.**_

_Thank you all for your comments and for wishing me to feel better. It's not so bad. I sleep for awhile. I write for awhile. I sleep. I write. It's just that time of year when everyone seems to be sick (at least where I am at)...If you are in Hawaii (which, for the record, I am not) then, you know, carry on in paradise. You guys really are the best! xx_

* * *

><p>Chapter Fourteen<p>

They fell asleep wrapped together like puppies, except that their tangled limbs were naked, her cheek pressed to his chest so his heart beat was the last thing she heard before she fell asleep, one of his hands low on her hip, the other holding her knee up near his own thigh. They were in the middle of talking and sharing endearments and then they were asleep, mid sentence it seemed, their bodies just completely exhausted.

Then, Mary woke. She couldn't have been asleep long, somehow she knew that. She began to press long, lingering kisses to his chest, and then upwards. He shifted a little–she knew he was awake by then–and by the time she reached his mouth he was ready, hungry even, ravenous to have been without her for so long, their mouths open, tongues dancing. He traced her lip with his tongue. She bit his lip.

Then it was just a matter of shifting and he was inside her again, filling her, and she made that low sound in her throat, nearly a growl, the first sound since they'd awakened in the silent room. He filled her as before, completely, and quite suddenly she was sitting up, rolling her hips, reaching forward a little so she could lace his fingers around her hands for leverage. The candles had long since guttered out; the room was dark.

She continued to roll her hips moaning. For her, it was...everything. But, she whispered, "Is this...?" He unlaced their hands, bringing them to her breasts, he gently pulled and plucked at her nipples until they were hardened peaks. She increased her pace, not even caring how she looked, hair probably a mess, on top of him like this, wanton, faster and faster. "Mary," he murmured and she knew that it would be over soon for him. One of his hands slipped down between them, where he pressed on some part of her she didn't even know existed, rubbing his thumb over this little nub she never even knew she had, flicking it with his finger. She cried out (in the best of ways); she'd never felt anything like it, while his other hand slipped down to her hip to help increase the pace. Before she knew it, he gave a shout, his finger flicking her one last time before she too pulsed and pulsed and fell forward onto his chest, not at all gracefully. She was covered in sweat. He was trembling. "I love you," she murmured against his sweaty sternum, "I love you."

"Darling," he managed, his mouth completely dry. "I love you too." He paused, trying desperately to get his head connected to his mouth but _they _were still connected down there and every few seconds, those aftershocks, those pulses, completely independent of either one of their intentions really, left his mind blank. "I am _so _glad we waited."

"You are?" she asked, lips pressed to his skin. She tasted salt.

"Yes, it's been perfect. You're perfect," he said breathlessly.

"You already said that," with a great deal of effort she lifted her head to look at him. She wanted to lick her lips, like the cat who ate the canary. "I'm hungry."

"I'm famished," he agreed. So like drunkards, they disconnected, tried to get out of bed, holding on to each other with hushed giggles. She wore her robe, with nothing beneath it, and he gave her a look, torn between sustenance and taking her back to bed. He put his pants on, for form's sake. They did have a daughter sleeping. He needed food.

"I do hope she doesn't wake up tonight," Mary whispered brazenly to him, curling her finger around the blond hair that began at his his belly button.

"She won't," Matthew replied, taking her hand because he really did need food if they were going to go another round. "She's in a cake coma."

They ate in the dark, the chicken with their fingers, ravenously like children. Potatoes slipped through their hands and fell on the floor. It took all their effort to bend down and pick them up. Then they took out what was left of the cake. With heroic strength, Matthew lifted Mary onto the counter and parted her legs to step between them, the short robe riding up even further. Her eyes were dazed when he took he took frosting on his finger and held it to her mouth which she was pleased, very pleased, to close her mouth around and suck off, perhaps, even licking a little more than necessary. He moaned and she pressed a finger to his lips, gesturing with her eyes upstairs to the nursery. _Alright, _he thought, _let's see how you do. _

He fed her a piece of cake next, messily so frosting and bits of it were left all over her mouth, she laughed, until he leaned forward, pulling her towards him at the same time so once again it was only his pants that separated them and she could feel that again, already, he wanted her. It was a miracle really. He leaned forward, his palms on the counter, flicking his tongue at the bits of frosting he'd left, all around her mouth just flicking until she was just desperate to be kissed. "Matthew," she whispered against his tongue, her hands moving into his hair, trying to pull him to her whole mouth but his tongue just kept that maddening brushing. "Matthew," she begged again. He appeased her by changing his brushing to sucking on various parts of her lips, still not kissing her fully. She groaned. He leaned back and pressed a finger to his lips, gesturing with eyes to the nursery upstairs.

"Kiss me," she begged, "Like you do sometimes, like it's an ache in my belly." He did, not even having to ask what she meant and it went on and on, his hands, moving behind her, scooting her even more forward on the counter, and her hands went to his pants which she pushed down as far as she could, her feet doing the rest. Then they were center to center and again she pleaded, "Now," and he was inside her, filling her, thrusting, her legs wrapped around his waist, helping him, pulling him into her more completely, her head thrown back so he had to suck on her neck again. This time it was fast and hurried, swallowing moans when they wanted to scream. At one point, she literally bit his shoulder to keep from making a sound.

All the while, he was thrusting into her and she was pulling him closer. His hands slipped into her robe, so loosely tied, and bent a little to take her breast into his mouth. Again, she pulled his hair to keep from screaming, bit her own lips, nearly stuck her own hand into her mouth to keep from screaming. "Mary," he murmured, which she had come to realize was his warning but it was too late for her. She'd already gone over and with two more thrusts, so had he. They hung limply on one another. They would have fallen asleep like that, their heads resting on each other's shoulders, her on the counter.

"You bit me," he admonished.

"There's a sleeping baby upstairs," she admonished. "Besides you liked it." Since she was right and he was a gentleman, he removed himself from her, fixed her robe, and lifted her to carry up the stairs.

"I love you," she repeated again quietly. "You know it's strange; you're walking completely normally now."

He grinned, though it took more energy than he had, and dropped her on the bed, crawling in after her, not bothering with his side. She curled up, like a child, and he spooned against her. They were asleep within seconds.

* * *

><p>She woke, many hours later, the sun beginning to shine through the curtains to Matthew bathing her throat with his tongue, pushing her hair back so he had better access. Spooned together as they were, she could now attest to the fact that, he did wake up, well, <em>randy. <em>She turned her head so they could kiss, still spooned together and it was all tongues and teeth. Then, he slipped inside her from behind, taking his hands and caressing her breasts, then moving lower down over her belly. She began to moan before he even to start to flick and press, and swirl that nub around (how could she have not known about this?), all the while moving in and out of her languidly, so slowly it was exactly like those kisses, like a dream, an aching in the belly, whole bodies trembling. When it was over, and they lay curled together, he pressed a kiss to a shoulder. He liked to stay inside her once they finished and as far as he could tell she was always a little sad to see him go as well. So they stayed curled up like that. "Now do you see why we never woke up together? Because that is exactly what I have wanted to turn over and do to you since the first night."

"Oh yes," she said, voice breathy. "You had excellent foresight." They both yawned and fell asleep like that together, still connected.

* * *

><p>If they were simply newlyweds they would have slept as long as they needed to in order to complete another round but they were also parents and it wasn't an hour later before she could hear quite clearly, Gracie demanding, "Pa! Pa! Pa! Pa!"<p>

Mary yawned. "Oh, look," she murmured. "She's learned your name and is calling for you." And fell back to sleep.

He slipped from her and walked drunkenly to find his pants (somewhere?) and put them on. He didn't bother with a shirt. Frankly, he didn't yet have the faculties to button himself up. His hair was standing on end, his eyes only a slit of piercing blue when he walked into the baby's room. "Pa," she said rather demurely, as if she were sorry for her earlier yelling demands.

"Good morning, Gracie," he said, lifting her, loving the way she curled into him, her fist on his chest. He changed her nappy and then fed her a bottle of water. She was awfully thirsty. Then he took off her clothes and let her run around the room screaming like a little banshee for about thirty minutes while he supervised, his eyes heavy lidded, in the rocking chair. For another ten minutes, she dragged on stuffed animal after another over to him to kiss, still running wildly, nearly naked and screaming, "Pa!" But then finally, forty minutes later, then her exertions tired her out (he was no dummy) and she walked over to him and demanded, "Pa! Up!" because now she could manage her _p _sounds. He took her into his arms and he shirtless and she nearly naked, rocked for about three seconds before they were both asleep.

A few minutes later, Mary stumbled from bed, found her robe (an apparent aphrodisiac) and loosely tied it. She felt only vaguely guilty for letting Matthew get up with Grace (she'd been doing it for eighteen months) so she tip toed into the room, only to find them both asleep in the rocking chair, every stuffed animal the baby owned at their feet. She gently lifted the baby from him (he woke immediately) and placed the baby in the crib without bothering to dress her, covering her well in her warmest blanket, then she took Matthew's hand and led him back to their bedroom. "Mary," he sighed. "I cannot..."

"No," she laughed drowsily. "You must sleep." And she tucked him in like a little boy.

"How did you get her back to sleep so quickly?" she asked after a moment, since Gracie usually waited several hours before she took her morning nap.

"Let her run around naked," he slurred and she would have laughed but she was simply too tired. Though she'd tucked him in, he crawled towards her and they ended as they began, wrapped around one another abet (a little) more clothed this time. "Love you," he muttered slurring his words (lalou). She smiled and slept some more.

* * *

><p>When he woke again, however long later, Mary was gone. He found his pajama top but didn't bother with the buttons and made his way down the hallway. Dear Lord, he could smell eggs. He could smell bacon. Was that toast? He found Mary at the stove and Gracie in her high chair, banging her baby utensils against the table. "Shhh," Mary admonished. "We mustn't wake..." Then she looked up and he was there. "Nevermind, Gracie."<p>

"You're cooking," he said, love and adoration bathing every word.

"Well I can manage eggs and bacon. And Gracie loves eggs," she added a little defensively.

"You're cooking me breakfast," he repeated in that lovesick tone. Then he went over to Gracie for another good morning kiss. "Pa!" she squealed, rubbing her hand over his beard.

Next he went over to Mary, still in that (damned) robe, and set his hands on her hips while she scrambled Gracie's eggs and kept an eye on the bacon. "You're making me breakfast," he repeated for the third time.

She turned and gave him a quick kiss then shooed him. "Get away from me. I can't deal with you again until that baby takes a nap. And even then you might need to sleep on the couch because I'm exhausted. I don't think I've ever been more tired in my life."

"Well if you want me to stay away from you," he whispered so only she could hear, "then you better change out of that damned robe."

"I don't know," she replied smugly. "I like it."

He took some toast she'd already made and brought it over to the baby, breaking it into pieces. "I like it too, Mrs. Crawley," he replied, looking at his wife, his eyes now wide open and searing. "That's the problem."

They grinned at one another.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Okay, I promise that it is not going to be sex, sex, sex the rest of the story. But I had to give them they're wedding night. They have been years. They have been wanting this since they first touched hands in episode whatever of series 1 (you can see that I am feeling very precise at the moment). So where do they go from here? How is Isobel going to react? How is Robert? How will they spend their last weeks in NY (at least for awhile)? Please review. xx<em>


	15. Chapter 15

_Author's Note: A couple of business matters to discuss. Upon re reading some chapters I have found some glaring grammatical errors. The grammar queen in me cringes at this but I am trying to go easy on myself because I've been posting so quickly. Usually when I write, I always set it aside for a few days at least before I look at it to edit so my eyes don't miss anything. Of course, once I am feeling better, and have a life, I won't be posting *as* often (but still often, I promise..I know what it is like to be a reader and desperate for another chapter) but has anyone who is reading ever beta'd before or just edited? I would require someone who knows her/his (I don't know if boys/men exist here) grammar, the characters & the show, and also someone who could keep up with a rather quick pace (again, not this quick by any means, but definitely more than a chapter a week, hopefully) (Plus I keep ahead of the chapters that I'm posting). Private Message me if interested._

_The second item is I have a questions about titles and such. So before Mary gets married she is Lady Mary. She has Grace. She is still Lady Mary but Grace is not a Lady, correct? Well then Lady Mary marries Mr. Crawley (future earl but without a title) correct? So now is Lady Mary only Mrs. Crawley or is she both Lady Mary and Mrs. Crawley or is she only Lady Mary? Finally, what about Grace? Once Matthew becomes Earl, Grace will be Lady Grace, correct? But like, now, when he is not Earl, and she goes and sees Carson, what is Carson going to call her? I can't see him calling her just Grace? If you understand this paragraph, you are awesome and please help me._

_Shout out to all you first time commentators! You're awesome. Keep it up. Ask me questions. Critique me. I love it._

_Finally, my thanks to LadyMaryCrawley for teaching me how to send private messages to comments so I don't have to make super long author notes! Thank you. If you like my story, and little Gracie, then you will probably enjoy her story with little Matty and little Mary. Check it out!_

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><p>Chapter Fifteen<p>

They settled into somewhat of a routine in the next weeks. Matthew still chose to take Gracie on outings in the mornings (their special time together he called it; this was the most sleep Mary had gotten in eighteen months). Of course, now he didn't rush to get out of bed in the mornings and could be depended upon to make love with his wife every single morning before Gracie called our for "Pa!" He hadn't been lying; it seemed rain or shine the man was randy in the mornings. There hadn't been a single morning since they'd been pronounced man and wife that she didn't wake to his hands caressing her and him hard and hot pressed to her.

Except this particular morning, spooned together, still inside her, as her body pulsed around him, and she tried desperately to catch her breath, his hand curled possessively around her breast, he whispered a little bashfully in her ear, "Do you think we've made a baby yet?" He pressed a soft kiss below her ear and waited for her reply.

"I..."

But then there was Gracie calling, saving her from having to respond. "Paaaaaa!" she called. "Pa! Pa! Pa!" He laughed against her neck, tickling her with beard, and left her embrace, finding his night clothes and putting them on. "I'm coming Gracie Girl," he called back to her before leaving the room.

Mary pulled the covers up over head to hide her face. The question shocked her though she supposed it shouldn't have. They'd been making love as often as two newlyweds with a very active daughter could, both of them running on fumes from a pure but sweet exhaustion. But a baby? Now? When they were so recently married? Of course, she wanted another baby with him _sometime. _But now? Just when things were becoming settled? Just when he was learning to be a father to Grace? Moreover, selfishly of course, she wanted a honeymoon period with Matthew. She didn't want to grow fat and plump, her breasts swollen and painful, and the sick, and just the discomfort...Not yet. Would he even _want_ her then? Could he? She thought she would die, now knowing what it felt like to have him, if he didn't want her.

She realized quite suddenly that once again, she and Matthew had misunderstood each other. He had always spoken of children whenever they spoke of marriage. In her own head, she heard _sometime. _But in his own head, he meant _soon. _Either way, it certainly wasn't up to the two of them. She knew there were ways to _control _when one had a child; it was beginning to be a hotly contested issue here and in England. But she didn't know how she felt about that. It wasn't the way things were done in her world. If she was meant to have more children, then she would not prevent it. Look where Grace had come from and look what Grace meant to her now. She knew she wanted more children; she knew she wanted them with Matthew. Her reasons for waiting were selfish.

She groaned beneath the covers. But how had they misunderstood one another? Here she had thought they simply couldn't get enough of each other (which felt wonderful to her) and he was thinking about getting her _pregnant _the whole time? Somehow it made her a little sad, more than a little actually. Her mind reeled. What if it was even more than that? What if it all went back to the Downton traditions? That there needed to be an heir, the faster the better so everyone could release the breath they were holding? _How could she be here again, _she thought, the pressure building in her chest. It felt very much like when she was engaged to Patrick when talk of sons, sons, sons was pounded into her head until she didn't want to marry anyone at all, let alone be a mother.

She was near tears when Matthew brought the baby back into the room for a good morning kiss. "Uh oh," Matthew said. "Looks like Mama is hiding."

"Uh oh," Gracie repeated.

"You better wake her up," Matthew urged, and laid the baby on top of the mound of covers that was Mary. "Maybe she's still sleeping."

"Ma! Ma!" Grace called rather loudly, digging through the covers. "Dere," she said triumphantly and launched herself into Mary's arms. Upon hearing them enter, she'd quickly wiped her tears away, only sniffling a little as she held her girl in her arms, feeling how big she was getting, how she could really hug back now.

"You have to stop growing, Gracie," Mary told her seriously. "You have to be Mama's baby forever."

Gracie leaned back in her mother's arms. "No," she said firmly.

"No?" Mary asked. "You're telling your mama no?" She began to tickle the girl mercilessly.

"Yes!" Grace screamed and Mary stopped moving her fingers so the girl could once again cuddle against her breast. Matthew watched, strangely silent (he usually participated in their games) as Mary rubbed noses with the girl. "I love you, Gracie," she murmured, and kissed her puckered mouth.

"Lalou," Gracie repeated (her newest word) which of course required a cheer and clapping from Mama while Gracie smiled smugly. Then she looked up at Matthew and beckoned him to the bed, Mary scooting over to oblige him. For a few minutes at least, Grace was content to lay between her parents, playing with her mother's long hair (something that fascinated her).

"This is about what I said," Matthew stated, so matter of fact, staring at the wall opposite their bed. She could see his jaw was set. Sometimes how well he knew her was not to her benefit.

"Whatever do you mean?" Mary replied lightly, running her fingers along her husband's shoulder and into his hair, but he dodged his head away from her hands.

"About making a baby." His voice wasn't hard but it certainly wasn't gentle.

For a moment, she looked down at Gracie (still playing with her mother's hair) but it was pointless to use her as an excuse when it was clear she had no idea what they were talking about. "You...you just surprised me. That's all."

"But we've talked about it, before the wedding. I thought we understood each other. I can't think of a reason why you'd be surprised by my question," he replied stubbornly.

"Well _I_ can think of a few reason why I should be surprised," she retorted in a very _Lady _Mary tone.

"Oh?" He still wasn't looking at her, and the single syllable did not bode well for the conversation. "Have your feelings on the subject changed?"

"Oh, Matthew," she complained. "You always make everything so black and white!"

He went very still and so did she. She hadn't meant to say those words exactly. It wasn't until they were out of her mouth that she remembered using them before, with tears in her voice, when she could not agree to marry him. The memory was not a good one, for either of them, the connotations not good for this conversation either.

"Matthew," she whispered, reaching for his hand. "I didn't mean it like that. I really didn't." She picked up Gracie and set the baby on her lap so she could scoot next to him. "I'm sorry." She laid her head on his shoulder. "I only meant the first part of the conversation, that it surprised me."

"C'mon, Gracie," he said cheerfully, lifting the girl off of Mary. "Time for our walk. Want to feed the duckies?" He grabbed his clothes as he went and closed the door behind him.

Mary wanted to cry. In the midst of their bliss, she'd forgotten what it could be like between them when things were not all rosy. In the past, at Downton, her skin had grown so thick that an argument such as this would never have warranted tears before but that was at Downton, years ago, when the hardest thing she'd ever had to do was wish him "such good luck." Now she knew what it was like to lay in his arms, to feel him inside her, to fall asleep to his heartbeat. She knew what it meant to see him laugh and play with Gracie, to rock her to sleep. It was as if she'd gone soft and now even the slightest lessening of affection hurt more painfully than even his most pointed rejections at Downton, when she had thought he would never be hers.

She sniffled while getting dressed, moped while going through some mundane household tasks. There were a few air mail letters set on her desk, one from Granny, and one from Cousin Isobel. Granny's letter was addressed to Mary but Cousin Isobel's was addressed to both Matthew and Mary. _Wonderful, _thought Mary, _I'd better get ready for another smacking from another Crawley. _For that reason, she opened Granny's first. _I am a coward, _she thought miserably.

_My darling Mary,_

_(& of course, Grace, and I suppose Matthew as well)_

_I cannot tell you how happy I was to receive your letter. Though I knew, before I even sent my entreaties that you would agree. How could you not with such a perfectly well thought out argument? And I see from your letter that you did meet Cousin Matthew in New York? Or may I now call him Matthew since he is my grand son-in-law? I think I will. Even with all the tasks you laid at my feet, I have taken up my duties happily, knowing I am to see you, and Grace Violet so soon. And Matthew too of course, but I see him all the time, you know, at boring dinners and such things._

_First, I went to your mother. Darling, my ears are still splitting from her shrieks of joy. Americans are so excitable. I do hope that in living there you have not taken up that virtue. But fear not, all is well with your mama; she completely agrees to your wishes and will do as you ask, happily (and probably rather loudly). Though your father was in the house, and it would be easiest for me to go to him next, and check that off my list, something inside of me said, "No, Violet. Not today." So I went on to Cousin Isobel._

_Well._

_She was not **so **happy to see me. Things haven't been easy since she believed me to be getting in the way of you and Matthew once you'd left for good and I wouldn't tell Matthew where you were. How many times must I have told that confounded woman that **I did not know where you were**? But she never would believe me. Like mother like son, I say. Just like when you refused Matthew and she thought I was behind it! Hah! Have I not always been Matthew's champion?_

_Anyway, that is old business._

_She greeted me rather briskly and we sat down for tea. I asked Mosely if he could please leave us in privacy and close the doors behind him. Cousin Isobel looked at me so strangely, like I was going to take a bayonet out of my bag and kill her in the drawing room! Hah hah! So I will tell you what I did say to her. I said, "Cousin Isobel, I know we have not always been the best of friends but I have something of great import to tell you."_

_She replied with worry. "Is everyone well?" she asked (no doubt wanting to use her "medical knowledge" and lord it over everyone's head)_

_I assured her that everyone was perfectly well but that I had some rather shocking news for her. Be strong, Isobel, I told her. And then I said, "Matthew and Mary are married and they have a baby." For a moment, she just stared listlessly at me as if I were speaking Japanese but then she began to cry (very lady like tears, I don't mind giving her credit where credit is due). "Oh," she said crying. "Well that's just wonderful. That's all he's ever wanted really."_

"_Oh?" I said._

_She continued to gently weep, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Of course. He might not have communicated it to me directly but I am his mother and this whole time, this whole time all he has wanted is to have Mary as a wife and be a husband to her and a father to their children."_

_Well, I am not a liar so I shan't lie to you, Mary. I began to cry a little myself (again in very lady like way, of course). And then Isobel went on, "And oh a baby? What is it? A little girl? A little boy? Oh a baby!" She brought her hands to her breasts and I knew that this would be the hard part._

"_I have a photograph," I told her gently and she let out a little yip (See? Even Cousin Isobel is not as uncouth and as loud as your mother. I mean, really.) She begged me to see it. So I took from my bag, Grace Violet's latest photograph. You know the one. She is wearing the beautiful dress I sent and she is staring at the camera bright eyed and grinning (not a very traditional photograph but I do prefer it to the dour faced serious baby photographs I see). "Here is Grace Crawley," I told her (again, I promise I spoke very gently). "She is eighteen months old."_

_Now Cousin Isobel may be very many things. One thing she is not, is stupid. But did she question me? Did she ask for dates and details? I am proud and even a little teary eyed now to say that she did not. What did she say? She took up the photograph and said, weepy, "Why, she is beautiful. She looks just like Mary! Oh a grandchild! I have a grandchild!" and she grabbed my hand._

"_Isobel," I began (again gently...I am sure you will have Matthew read this letter and I know he doubts my ability to be gentle with people)._

_She shushed me. And Mary, I have never in my life been so happy to be shushed. She said, "I don't give a fig about the dates or any of it. Matthew has what he has always wanted and I have grandchild. And anyone who says anything different can stick that in their pipe and smoke it" (which is a line I believe I once offered her). Then she began to cry in earnest. By the time I told her that you would all becoming to stay in June, and at Crawley House, she was simply a mess (still, less of a mess than your mother. Oh, that Cora...) and I told her there would be some things that would need to be done to one of the rooms to prepare it for Grace Violet and she nodded very vigorously (you know there is nothing the woman loves more than a project) but then she reached for my hand and she said, "Would you help me, Cousin Violet? I think it would mean so very much to Mary if we could do this together." Then Cousin Isobel and I began to cry in earnest and I am sure that when Mosely appeared he thought that someone had died. We have already started preparations and it i**s **such a fun project. And I know, I **know**, we can trust Isobel to be discrete. We've had our issues in the past, but after the way she handled this, I will never, ever say a bad word against that woman. _

_Now, to your father. _

_I went to him the next day to share the happy news. I told him that you and Matthew and the baby were coming to visit in June. Darling, I don't want to upset you but I am **so **angry at him. "So he's the father then? That's the great secret?" He was so snide, Mary, I wanted to hit him with my fan, and he said this to the woman who gave birth to him as well. You must have noticed the size of Robert's head; it was not an easy or a short labour, as you probably have guessed. _

_I weighed my options and replied, "Yes, he is." (I hope this answer pleases you)_

_And he retorted in that same snide voice, oh I wish I would have slapped him with my fan, "Have they** finally** married then?" As if he has no skeletons in his closet. As if he is a deity without mistakes. Hmph! Even I, Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess, have made mistakes._

"_Robert," I stated. "There is no **finally **about it. All you must know is that Matthew and Mary are married and they are brining your grandchild for a visit and if you misbehave, if you make them feel unwelcome in anyway, I know for sure they will not return." He looked up at me with such anger in his eyes. Where has all this anger come from, I wondered, but I had to go on. "Then you will have lost...let me see?" And I began to count on my fingers (I was wearing very elegant gloves). "An heir, a grandchild, and a daughter?"_

_Mary, it pains me to write his response but I cannot be dishonest. You must know what you are walking into. He said: "I've already lost a daughter. No, actually two, now that I think of it."_

_Well the difference in reactions between Isobel and Robert threw me quite into a fit. I know I (and his nanny) raised Robert and that he is English but does he have to be **so **English? I don't think I have to tell you that Isobel's response was the right one and your father's the wrong one. But do not worry, I have warned him. If he is not kind and genteel towards you, Matthew, and the baby, I shall never speak to him again. I will die silent as he pleads for my forgiveness. And when we get to heaven, I shan't speak to him there either._

_So. That is an account of my duties. Please focus on the good and not the bad. Think of how loved Grace will be in Crawley House. Her room is coming around marvelously. I cannot wait to see you my dears, (all three of you). If only it were tomorrow...Do not forget to send me the times for the train. I miss you very much and you have made me very happy to know that you are coming._

_Oh! I almost forgot Edith and Sir Antony are expecting a baby! They just announced it. So we will have babies abound this summer. Here, here, I say._

_With Love,_

_Granny_

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><p>By the time Matthew returned with Gracie, once again asleep in his arms, Mary was openly weeping, at Isobel's kindness (she had yet to open the letter but she was no longer worried) and at her father's lack of compassion. That combined with the earlier part of her morning had simply undone her.<p>

Matthew looked at for a moment, whispered that he would be right back and carried the sleeping child to her room. When he returned, he simply took Mary into his arms, and held her as she cried. "I'm sorry," he murmured, pressing kisses to her hair. "I was hurt but I should not have lashed out at you."

"No," she replied. "It's not you. Or not just you. I received a letter from Granny. And I am sorry too. Truly. I was just surprised and taken aback. We hadn't talked about it in great detail and..." she gulped and opened her mouth to say more but he leaned her back and pressed a kiss to her lips.

"Are we alright? You and I?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered. "Of course we are. I love you."

"And I love you," he replied. "Now then let's have a look at this letter." He brought her to the couch, where she curled against him, just like old times, and he read, and read. At times he laughed. But when he got to the part about his mother, even he had to swallow a lump in his throat.

"She loves you, you see," Mary explained. "I don't know why I didn't think of it before. It's a little like Grace and I, before you came along. For so long it's just been the two of you. You're her only boy. She only wants to see you happy. She would do anything to protect you. Double the work of any other parent because it's only her. I know or I remember what that felt like."

He leaned his forehead against Mary's for a moment before continuing to read. And read. About Robert and his coolness. "Well that's good news for Edith then," he tried to say, bringing his wife's legs over his lap, trying to ignore the part about her father.

"I don't even know what to say about him," she whispered.

"Then let us not talk about it. We know where he stands and we know where we stand," he added. "There is nothing to be done until we are there in person."

Mary nodded sadly and handed him the letter from his mother. He laughed. "You could have opened it too, you know. It's addressed to both of us."

_My Dear Matthew, Mary, and Gracie (as Violet tells me she goes by),_

_I could not be happier. There are simply no words to adequately express my joy, both at your marriage and that I am a grandmother to a beautiful and happy little girl. I cannot wait to see you, to hold you all in my arms, to welcome you, Mary, as my daughter, and to meet Gracie, who I am already enamored with by the photograph Violet left for me. Preparations are moving along splendidly. If only it were June **now.**_

_Your Affectionate Mother & Grandmother._

Mary began to weep again. "Maybe you are with child," Matthew joked. "You seem to be unusually emotional."

She looked up at him and though she would have like to bite him, she rather tenderly asked, "Is that why you've been with me so much, that we've been together so much? Just so that there would be another baby?"

"Mary, of course not!" He looked shocked at the thought and brought her hand to his lips to kiss. "I want you all the time because I want you all the time."

"Is it because you want a boy? For Downton?" she asked, biting her lip to keep it from trembling.

Again it was his pure shock that relieved her. "Of course not. No wonder you were upset. I would be happy with six girls. I swear to you."

"And when we have a baby, another baby," she asked, her lips really trembling now. "Will you still want me? Even when I'm fat? Even when I am so swollen I can barely fit into all those beautiful nightclothes Mrs. Larsen bought us as a wedding present?" (It was true; Mrs. Larsen's wedding present to them had been an abundance of nightclothes like the ones Mary wore the first night, some even a tad more risque, in an array of colors, which she gave to Mary and Matthew with a wink).

He blushed, just a little at the cheeks. "To be honest Mary, ever since you told me the story of you pregnant with Grace in the tub..." He could not finish his sentence without embarrassing himself completely. "I know for certain I will still want you then."

"So...you liked it then? That story? Imagining me naked and as big as a whale?" she teased, running her fingers through his hair. "You've thought about it?"

His face turned more red. "Well, yes..."

She could tell he expected reproach but she only climbed on top of him, leaning forward to kiss him. Mary could feel, just sitting on his lap, that even talking about her pregnant body had excited him, a great deal actually and nothing could have soothed her more. "Grace should sleep for another thirty minutes," she murmured, rolling her hips over him. "Take me upstairs."

And he did.

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><p><em>Author's Note: So. What do we think of crazy Violet (I personally love her)? And Isobel? Did she surprise you? And what Robert? Moreover, what's all this talk about babies and the fact that Matthew is baby crazy? Plus, the Crawley's first real fight as a married couple over kind of a big deal topic...? How about Matthew's kink to see Mary prego? Please and review. It's possible I could pump out another chapter if motivated ;)<em>


	16. Chapter 16

_Author's Note: Yo, yo, yo. I'm still sick so I am still in bed, writing away. I can't really sleep because then all this stuff in my throat goes down and so it's just bad news. So for everyone who has complimented me at my speed, please, I cannot take credit it for it. You may thank my illness. In story news, if this story was in parts, chapter 17 (not this chapter but the next, obvi) would end Pat I. That doesn't mean that we are 50% done (not really sure where we are to be honest until the Crawley's hook up with those Downton hoodlums) but just so ya know..._

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><p>Chapter Sixteen<p>

The next morning, Matthew woke, reaching for his wife (his wife! It still excited him) as he always did, wanting her before he was even fully awake or his eyes opened, the space where she usually burrowed was empty. He got up immediately and put on his pants (since he'd already had her in the middle of the night as well...twice) and went to find her. Surely, this couldn't have been about their tiff yesterday. It had all been worked out as she'd made very obvious during Gracie's nap. He grinned, he simply couldn't help it. His mother's words were true; he had all he'd ever wanted. How strange to know that.

The nursery door was ajar as he'd left it the night before but then he heard retching. His first thought was Gracie so he very rudely opened the door to find his wife, head in the toilet, vomiting violently. He went to her immediately, moved her hair, long and loose so it was out of her way, and rubbed her back as soothingly as possible, all the while feeling completely helpless. Finally, just when he was going to demand he call the doctor, she wiped her mouth and sat back her head against his chest. "It was the beef last night," she whispered hoarsely at last. "I just knew it didn't agree with me."

"Alright," he replied, though he had his doubts. He brushed the few pieces of hair off her sweaty forehead.

She looked up at him hopefully. "How do you feel?"

"I feel fine," he admitted. "Only worried about you."

She actually looked a little disheartened to hear he was feeling well. It went unsaid between the two of them, especially in light of yesterday's conversation (_Are you sure you aren't pregnant? You are very emotional),_ that this could very obviously be an indication, that she was very much pregnant. As he pressed a kiss to her hair, he knew, after talking it out with him yesterday, and her _demonstrations _during Grace's nap time, that she did want children with him, that all her reservations had been put to _bed _(quite literally) that it was only Mary's stubborn disposition that her not wanting to say it out loud and admit that he was right. She simply did not want to give him the satisfaction.

The next morning, he reached for her, for their usual wake _up _routine, and found her side of the bed cold again. And again, he found her in the bathroom vomiting. She held up her hand to him, to stop him from coming any closer, with her head still in the bowl. "I'm almost done," she managed before she continued to be sick for another five minutes, then sat against the wall, again sweating, again looking pale, and completely miserable.

"It's a bug," she told him.

He kept quiet, his tongue in his cheek. "Then maybe you ought to stay away from Gracie today. I know you wouldn't want to get her sick too."

She looked at him, imploringly, her big dark eyes like a puppy's. "But I feel fine now," she insisted, and sure enough color was already coming back to her cheeks.

"But darling," he said as kindly as he could, kneeling down near her. "It's been two days in a row that you've been sick. If you can think of another explanation..."

"Oh, sod off," she muttered at him, reaching out a hand so he could lift her off the floor. "I'll go to the doctor tomorrow and we'll see what we see."

"Shouldn't you go today? So he can do something so you won't be sick tomorrow?" Matthew asked, his face full of concern.

She literally laughed at him, holding her belly. She laughed and laughed. Then she put her hands on his cheeks. "Oh, Matthew. If I'm pregnant, there's nothing to stop me from being sick if my body is intent on being sick."

He looked panicked. "You mean, you'll be like this..."

She smiled, a little more kindly, but still as if he were a poor ignorant man (which he was). "They say it's different with each pregnancy. But with Gracie I was sick everyday for a few weeks and then it went away."

"Really?" he asked, as if it could be a lie. "Weeks?"

"Really," she nodded, patting him consolingly. Then she did a fair impression of his very hopeful: "_Do you think we've made a baby yet?"_

This time he told her to sod off. "What else?" he asked. "The first few weeks? What else was different?"

She took his hands in her own and then pressed them to her cheek. "We'll talk after we go to the doctor. I don't want to get our hopes up if I'm not."

"But if you are..." he insisted.

"If I am," Mary said seriously. "I'll answer any question you have and I have a few books as well. I promise. Now, I would kiss you but I must brush my teeth immediately."

"Should I come with you to the doctor?" he asked with more concern.

"No," she replied. "You stay with Grace. I'll be fine on my own."

* * *

><p>The next day he was waiting for her, tapping his foot as he sat on the couch. "Grace is napping," he explained immediately. "Well?" But he could already see from the smile on her face, the way her hands, in answer to his question automatically went to her belly. "Really?" Matthew asked, walking towards her, his face so hopeful, so happy. She nodded, that was all she could manage to do. She felt as if she were in a dream. "Oh, Mary," he murmured, once he'd taken her in his arms. "How do you feel?"<p>

"I feel..." she said, softly, shyly. "Very happy but nervous too."

"Nervous?" he pulled away to look at her face.

"I think even if I have ten babies I'll always be nervous," she smiled but then peered at his grin. "Not that I _will be_ having ten babies. Unless it's you that plans on being sick every morning for a few weeks ten times."

"You're my hero," he told her, pressing his lips to her temple, her forehead, her cheek and then her mouth. It was meant to be a simple kiss, but before long, she'd dropped her bag to the floor so she could wrap her arms around his waist. "She's only been asleep for ten, fifteen minutes at the most," he said around her lips, as if he could read her mind. "And Mrs. Larsen is gone for day."

"Good," she began to unbutton his shirt, her fingers shaking and pushed it off her shoulders. He'd already untucked her blouse and was pulling it over her head. She'd forgone most undergarments because the doctor just would want her take them all off anyway and then put them back on. She grabbed the bottom of his undershirt and pulled it off of him, breaking their kiss with a groan. She pressed open mouthed kisses to his throat, standing on her tip toes, swaying, trying to keep her balance, while he pulled her skirt down or tried to.

"Mmm," she murmured, her lips trailing to the other side of his neck and she stepped out of the skirt and her under things, still swaying in his arms. He did away with his own pants and things; he couldn't bear for her not to be touching him at this moment. Then they were both swaying, moving together, towards the couch and Mary gave him a little push so he sat with a grunt and then climbed on top of him. He took her face in her hands, murmuring _I love you, I love you, I love you_ against her lips as the frenzy continued to build.

He could feel her dampness against his own heat and he would have taken her then but she was opening her mouth down his chest, further and further, her hand slipping between them to grasp him in her hand. His head went back, (he hit it hard on the back of the couch but he couldn't feel anything but her hand and then, oh god, was that her mouth? He made himself look down watched her as she caressed him with her lips and tongue and then...Oh God, back and forth, back and forth, her tongue trailing at the bottom, her lips holding...Meanwhile her hands weren't idle. They continued to caress him, his thighs his chest, anywhere she could reach. "Mary," he murmured, which was always his warning and she looked up at him. Her face flushed, body naked. "I want to be inside you this time," he whispered, illicitly, as he reached for her and she climbed on top of him groaning and his own fingers touched her in just the right place and she slid onto him, the fit tight and perfect and completely right.

She fell against him, her bare breasts against his chest, and the sensation gave him new energy so that he simply began to pick her up by the hips and push her back down, over and over, and she groaned, tightening around him, beginning to pulse, that flutter inside of her driving him mad. He was sliding her up and down so quickly, it felt incredible. "I can't...I won't last long," he murmured to her shoulder and felt her smile against his neck. "Me either," she groaned, all the while he lifted her and pushed her down until...until...

She wrapped her arms around his neck as tight as they would go. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "You know we won't be able to make love on the couch at Crawley House."

He swallowed, tried to wet his lips to speak. "Unfortunately." He banded his arms around her, still inside her. "How did you know...when you put...in your mouth?" She felt his blush rather than saw it; they were so close and she blushed in return.

"I've never done it before," she whispered. "Was it alright?"

"Was it alright?" he asked incredulously. "It was incredible. I wouldn't have lasted another second if...But how did you know...to do that?"

She burrowed into his neck. "You don't want to know."

"But I do want to know," he replied, languidly caressing her sides, her breasts.

She continued to hide her face. "No, you really don't."

"Come now, Mary," he jiggled her a bit in his arms.

"Will you absolutely promise not to be angry with me?" she asked, pressing frantic kisses to his face.

"As long as you absolutely promise to do it again sometime," he joked.

"Well, do you remember, before we were married, that night when you explained about being in pain..." He nodded in reply but already didn't like where this was going. "Well the next day I went wedding dress shopping with Mrs. Larsen and you know, I didn't have anyone else to ask, so I did and she's the one who told me I could use my hand...or my mouth. But I was too nervous then...to use my mouth," she explained unnecessarily.

"Mrs. Larsen?" he nearly shouted and she jumped in his arms. "Mrs. Larsen?"

"Shh, the baby," Mary implored. "I'd like to cuddle a bit more before she wakes up and yes, Mrs. Larsen. Have you any complaints for the advice she's given me? Or all the nightdresses she's bought me, the ones she hands to me with a wink and croaks _here ya' are Lady Mary_?" she hissed.

He closed his eyes. "It's embarrassing. It's beyond embarrassing."

"I just went to her that one time. You know she and Mr Davies have been together for fifteen years...I trust her. And I promise, since we've been man and wife I haven't told her any details about our marital bed...or couch," she joked. "Although," she added as an after thought. "She does keep buying me those night dresses and the silks. And the sheers..."

"Sheer?" he reared up again. "Why I haven't I seen those?"

"I haven't gotten up my nerve yet to show you," she responded shyly.

"Well do you think you could get your nerve up tonight?" he asked.

"Oh, ho," Mary laughed. "So now you're a fan of Mrs. Larsen and her knowledge of the topic."

He looked her in the eye very seriously, but for a slight twinkle. "I promise not to be mad that you told Mrs. Larsen intimate details of our...relations..._if _you wear the sheer nightgown tonight."

She laughed some more. "You already promised that you wouldn't be mad if I..." she whispered the next part into his ear. "took you into my mouth again." She felt warm just saying it and then she felt something else altogether...

"I guess you'll be very busy tonight," he teased playfully.

"Hey!" she poked him in the side. "I'm with child, you dolt. Your child. You should be pampering me."

"You're right," he said soberly, and the both of them completely naked, he lifted her up, and carried her up the stairs to their bedroom...where he pampered her until Gracie woke up from her nap.

* * *

><p>Later, after the candles Mrs. Larsen continued to supply had nearly guttered out, just glowing, and Matthew had removed the very sheer and very short nightgown from his wife, and literally pressed his lips and tongue to every part of her, repaying her earlier favor, bringing her to such intense levels of ecstasy that she nearly pulled out his hair and screamed so loudly they were shocked Grace did not wake, they talked.<p>

He pressed a kiss to her belly, then lay his hand there, as if he would be able to feel his son or daughter already. "You said you would tell me more about your pregnancy with Grace if it ended up that you were pregnant."

She dragged her hand through his hair. She felt as if she were floating. "It's just still so surprising that you want to know. I remember how my father was..." The sadness came and went int her eyes.

He didn't know what to say about Robert. It angered him that he could even think to say those things about Mary and Sybil, especially when Matthew now knew what it was like to be a father to a daughter. "So tell me," he chided, walking his fingers across her stomach.

Maybe she should have been embarrassed by her nakedness or her earlier wantonness but she wasn't, not a bit. "Well I told you that I was sick, at least at some point during the day for at least a few weeks, months maybe. It's hard to remember. But I was so tired during the first bit. So, so tired. I could not get enough sleep."

"Really?" Matthew asked. Everything continued to fascinate him. "I'll have to help you, give you an extra hand." He kissed her breast. "You're not alone this time. Don't you forget that. If Mama needs a lie in..."

"Have I ever told you," she said turning over so she could wrap her arms around his neck and place one leg over his hip, "how very thankful I am for you?"

"How much?" he asked, when she lifted her head to kiss him, teasingly. With her hand, she tugged his wedding band off his finger, and held it up so he could see what was engraved there. _Thank you. _"I never knew," he murmured, kissing her forehead. He knew she could have written something sentimental, the date, or even I love you. But considering their beginnings, how very _Lady Mary_ she been to him, a humble thank you was more romantic than anything else. "You said you had some books too?"

She shrugged. "Some. Some were helpful. Others were not." She shuddered.

"What do you mean?" he asked, the back of his hand brushing her stomach.

She laughed. "It will embarrass you."

"More than the Mrs. Larsen bit?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

"I think we can agree that the Mrs. Larsen bit was mutually agreeable," she giggled, pulled herself closer to him with her leg. "Alright. I'll tell you. One of the books said giving birth would be like.." she paused, said the word against his chest, "having a bowel movement. And that," she said more primly, "was a fat lie. The fattest lie I've ever heard."

Laughing together, their foreheads touching, their bodies jiggling against one another, her leg over her hip, all had him leaning forward to kiss her, one of those drugging kisses that made her head spin. "Are you feeling sick now?" he asked.

"No," she murmured.

"Are you feeling tired?"

"No."

"Then can I have you?"

"Please."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: THERE IS A BABY ON BOARD. WOAH. AND MRS LARSEN SUPPLIES LINGERIE AND SEXUAL ADVICE. WOW. SOMETIMES WHEN YOU DRINK COUGH SYRUP YOU TYPE IN ALL CAPS. THROW ME A LINE AND LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK. CMON, YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO. BECAUSE THE NEXT CHAPTER, ACTUALLY MADE ME CRY WHEN I WAS WRITING IT. Sorry for all that but once the caps lock is on, what is a girl to do?<em>


	17. Chapter 17

_Author's Note: I have a ton of messages to respond to and I will get to those! Sorry if I have not yet responded to you. Also, this chapter is dedicated to every person who begged me to let them stay in New York because of how they (Matthew, Mary, and Grace) are together there. It's bittersweet but I tried to meet the the task._

* * *

><p>Chapter Seventeen<p>

They found out Mary was pregnant on May fifteenth and every morning until they left on June second, Matthew found her on the bathroom floor, horribly sick. One morning, a week before their departure, she snapped at him, "Can't you leave me in peace?" He bit his tongue since he very much wanted to say, _darling, you didn't seem to be in peace with your head in the toilet. _He did leave her, because she asked it of him, but it wasn't ten minutes later, after cleaning herself up a bit, that she padded back into their bedroom and simply laid herself on top of him. "I'm sorry," she kissed the middle of chest. "I was a beast to you."

"Not a beast, surely" he teased, pulling the covers up over the two of them. Gracie had been sleeping in a bit later (Mary claimed she was growing) and husband and wife snuggled into the bed.

"But I will have done," she said, her chin resting on his chest. "By the time this is over. I'll snap at you. I'll cry for no reason. I'll be tired all the time. I'll be a mess."

"I also read in one of your books that after a few weeks your desire for your husband will massively blossom," Matthew replied with as close to a leer as someone so angelic looking as Matthew could manage.

She smiled wanly. "It's true. It was horrible with Gracie. To feel like I would just die if I didn't have someone lie on top of me. And I was horrified, considering my experiences that my body should want that in the first place."

He pulled her up by the elbows, and sucked on her lip until she groaned. It always made him laugh a little inside to know that parts of their love making were wonderfully unpredictable but that tiny thing always produced the same result. He loved it in fact, this time giving it an extra nip. "Well this time around, I hope you will come to me and come to me often." He ran his tongue along her bottom lip and she shuddered. "Please."

Blissfully, she rubbed her nose against his. "Yes, but we will be at Crawley House, won't we? With your mother. Whom I love," she added. "Nonetheless there will be no love making on counters or couches there."

"No," he said regretfully. "I don't think Mr. Mosely or Mrs. Byrd would appreciate that."

"But I had all these plans you see," she told him, biting her lip. "Before we found out I was pregnant and so exhausted all the time."

"Oh?" he replied, arching his eyebrow in a fair impression of Lady Mary.

She leaned up, pressing her lips to his ears. "Yes, there were dozens of places left on my list."

His hand went to her bottom. How could it not? "Oh? Where were these places?"

Her breath grew hotter. "The bath, the kitchen floor, the dining room table, standing up, the swivel chair in the upstairs study, the floor of our bedroom, the counter in the bathroom, the dresser (we never actually did finish)...That's all I can think of off the top of my head."

His other hand cupped her bottom and was pressing her very firmly against himself. She was even rubbing herself against him, just the slightest bit, so that he couldn't outright accuse her of it. He coughed. "That's off the top of your head?"

She frowned, batting her eyelashes at him, and sighed. "And now, we're leaving in a week and I'm afraid all my dreams will be for naught."

He swallowed, as her legs spread over his torso more completely. "Well, we could do our best this week."

She leaned forward and gently bit his lip, then soothed it with her tongue. "But what about packing?"

"What about Mrs. Larsen? Can't she pack?" he asked, while she played with his mouth and his hands moved to her breasts, to rub and tease her nipples.

"While we..."

He smiled, reaching for the bottom of her nightgown and pulling it up. "She's always seemed supportive of this area of our relationship in the past."

She raised her arms for him to remove that (damned) nightgown. "Well where should we start, husband? Since it seems we have a few minutes to ourselves."

"I think," he murmured, lifting her while she wrapped her legs around him. "We should try the dresser. It is right here. And I do have such fond memories of it."

"Do you?" she asked, eyes sparkling. Then he set her upon it, completely naked, he mostly clothed, and bent his head to take one of her nipples into his mouth. Her fingers dragged themselves through his hair and she groaned when he quite literally gave her a love bite on the side of her breast before switching his mouth to give its attention to the other.

His arms pulled her closer to the edge and before she even knew it, his mouth still lavishing attention to her nipple, one of his hands slipped between her legs and flicked that spot that he always seemed to find with such ease. He rubbed his thumb against it, creating circles that had her moaning and clutching at Matthew's hair all the more as he switched breasts again. Then he slid one of his fingers inside her (well, this was new), his thumb still drawing those circles, before he reared up to kiss her, just before he curled that finger up and began to stroke inside of her, his thumb always moving on that nub.

She gasped and cried out, her legs shaking and trembling and it was clear why his mouth had left her breasts. It was necessary to swallow the low groans at the beginning, the higher keening, and then the final scream, that seemed to go on and on in her head. Even after it was over, she was trembling all over; Matthew had to hold her upright while he looked pleased with himself.

"What...what about you?" she whispered. "We'll get to that," he replied, scooting her even further off the dresser, leaning forward to press light kisses to her neck, her clavicle as she continued to shake. Then he was leaning up, taking her arms and placing them on his shoulders, grasping her legs and wrapping them around himself because she was so weak. He wiggled out of his pants then leaned forward to kiss her, to, of course, pull her lower lip into his mouth and suck on it, biting it, then soothing it with his tongue. He traced her top lip with tongue as well and then suddenly she was kissing him back, their tongues fighting, faces tilting, her legs trying desperately to bring him closer, her hands delving into his hair. "Now, now, now," she chanted and he thrust into her, both of them moaning low in their throats.

Each time he thrust into her, hard, she urging him on with "harder," whispered into his ear, the dresser banged against the wall but neither of them noticed. Then, shockingly, he lifted her right off the dresser, placed her back against the wall, he laced his arms under her's so he could hold onto her shoulders from behind and continued to pound into her until they both finished in a burst and they quite literally slid to floor, leaving a trail of sweat down the wall. "Two for one," he breathed.

"In more ways than one." She was panting. "You're a genius."

"We could try for the floor but I need a moment," he murmured against her neck.

"I need more than a moment. I didn't know that I could and then we could...Oh, you can get that smug smile off your face, I can feel it against my neck," she whispered.

"Can't a man be smug that he just made his wife very happy?" he asked, lifting his head to look at her.

She smiled. "You can be smug because you have made your wife very happy," she agreed and kissed him. "Now how do we get up from here?"

"As to your question, I am not sure," he supplied. "But as for your worries as to our _relationship _at Crawley house, have I not now proven my creativity?"

"I did once tell Aunt Rosamund that you were smart enough to be Lord Chancellor," she replied.

He lowered his head to her breast in shyness. "And perhaps...we can save the bath for when you are...farther along in the pregnancy."

She laughed but said, "For you, my darling, of course. But I want no complaints when you have to use lard to get me out of the tub." She paused. "But what will we do? Ask Mosely to draw us a bath?"

"Don't worry," he kissed her deeply. "They've modernized the plumbing, even put in a shower. We can add that to your list."

Grace wasn't oblivious to the fact that something was going on with Mama. Though there were no outward sign of the pregnancy, Mary was exhausted, often going to bed before Gracie. Gone were the days when Mama alone rocked Grace to sleep. Gone also were the days when Mama or Papa rocked Grace to sleep. Now it was only Papa, which she didn't mind. He did tell the best stories and she loved how his beard tickled at the end of the night. But what was wrong with Mama?

So it happened, as it often does, that Grace, not in anyway able to understand what was happening, clung to Mary all the more, holding on to her skirt when she walked around the house packing, begging to be picked, "Up, Mama!" and crying at the end of the night when Matthew had to pry the baby out of Mary's arms so that Mary could get some much needed sleep. A few times, he'd caught tears building up in Mary's eyes, when Grace began to cry for, "Mama, Mama, Mama!" She was only just beginning to get the English sound and syllables right and the sound broke Mary's heart. Matthew, torn between the two of them, trying to comfort Gracie, who like a wild animal tried to free herself to run after her Mama on her little feet, and watching his wife walk to their bedroom despondent, wiping tears from her own eyes.

Only to start all over the next day, finding Mary in the bathroom sick, violently sick, no matter what she ate (she never woke him or called for him. Her pride would not allow it). All in all, there were several rather large transitions happening in the Crawley family, even without the sailing across the Atlantic to meet a family who had mixed reviews of them. Matthew tried to remain calm, strong, for his two girls. But it was breaking his heart, hearing Gracie call for Mama and then finding Mary in the bathroom alone in the morning. Then one night, while he was reading one of the books she'd given him, Mary long since burrowed underneath the covers and quickly fallen asleep, he realized that she had done this all alone the first time. Completely alone. He couldn't imagine it. He had to put the book down, shut the light, and wrap himself around her, pressing his face into her back. He wished even in sleep she could know what he was thinking: _I'm here, I'm here, this time I'm here._

* * *

><p>The next morning, the bed was again empty and he yawned, walking down the hallway, scratching his stomach. Finally he spied a little girl, in pajamas sagging from a wet nappy standing just outside the bathroom, staring at her mother while she was sick in the toilet. He was sure that Mary did not know Gracie was there, her task was an intense and all consuming one.<p>

"Gracie," Matthew whispered, a few feet away from the bathroom door so Mary could not see him. The little girl looked at him, her lower lip stuck out. He gestured for her to come into Papa's arms. But she shook her head and turned back to look at Mama. "Gracie," Matthew repeated, "Come here." But again Gracie shook her head, tears wetting her eyes now as that lip began to tremble. Just as Matthew was about to rush forward and grab the baby to return her to the nursery, Mary finished and sat back against the wall as was her usual routine, and spotted the little girl. It took all her strength to smile at Gracie and cheerfully ask, "Oh, have you broken out of jail then? Did Gracie Girl climb out of her crib finally?"

Very solemnly Gracie nodded, admitting the truth of her crime. Then she waddled (well it was becoming less of a waddle these days) over to her mother. "Mama!" she cried, tears springing in earnest. Matthew peeked his head around the corner to see Mary holding the baby to her breast, rocking back and forth, her own eyes closed. "Oh my sweet girl!" she crooned. "I'm so sorry that everything is changing. It must be so hard for you." Gracie nodded as if she knew what her mother was saying. Mary closed her eyes, kissed the top of her head. "For so long, it's just been me and you, Gracie Girl. And I wouldn't change it and I don't think you would either. But then Papa came and wasn't that grand? Don't you love Papa?" Gracie rubbed at the tears at her eyes and nodded. "Lalou, Papa," she murmured and Matthew took that as his cue to enter the bathroom.

For a second, for the first time he could ever remember, he could see trepidation in Grace's eyes, as if she thought he would take her from her Mama, so he sat near Mary's feet, so Gracie could be sure she would stay with her mother. Mary smiled at him and turned Gracie so she could see both her parents. "Don't we love, Papa?"

Gracie nodded, still crying and sniffling. "Lalou," she croaked quite pathetically. Matthew's heart ached.

"And well, maybe we should wait to tell you, because I don't know if you'll understand but I know you know things are different around here," Mary met Matthew's eye for confirmation and he nodded. "But Mama has a baby in here." She pressed a hand to her belly.

Gracie, whose vocabulary was literally growing by the day, disagreed, shaking her head. "Me. Baby."

Mary's eyes filled with tears, and she tried very hard to keep them out of her voice. "You'll always be my baby. Always. No matter what. You'll always be Papa and Mama's baby."

"Yes," Gracie nodded. "Me."

"But Mama is also going to have another baby," Mary said, still trying not to cry. She put a finger to Gracie's nose. "See? There's my baby," and then she placed a hand on her belly, "And here's another baby."

"Kay," Gracie replied, still sniffling. Though no one would ever know how much of it she comprehended. Then, she stood up, yanking at her mother's nightgown until she stood too. She took Mama's hand and led her to the nursery, then to the rocking chair. "Mama," Gracie commanded. "Dere." Mary sat and like a little monkey, Gracie climbed up into Mary's lap.

"That's a very good idea," Mary said. "Let's rock. Do you know how many times I've rocked you in this chair? My baby, Gracie." She was still trying with all her strength not to lay her head on the baby's hair and just sob. They rocked and they rocked and rocked. An hour went by, Gracie long asleep, but Mary kept rocking, her baby, her first baby safe in her arms.

When finally, she lifted the baby into the crib and stepped out of the nursery, Matthew was waiting with open arms. For a second, Mary paused. She was still so out of practice when it came to depending on anyone else, especially in this area of her life. But then she moved forward; they both wrapped their arms around one another and Mary cried and cried. Matthew pressed a kiss to her head. He told her what a wonderful mother she was again and again, but when that didn't seem to help, he just held her. "I've only ever rocked her in that chair, you see," Mary whispered. That was the closest either of them came to admitting that with the second baby and his responsibilities to the estate that there a strong change this would not just be a visit. "I've rocked her hundreds, thousands of times," she whispered brokenly. "But only ever in that chair."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: This was really bittersweet for me to write. I think it is safe to say that this transition is going to be difficult and wonderful for all three (really, four) of the Crawleys. But now Part I is finished and we are off to Downton. I am eager to know your opinions of this chapter. How about Matthew, maybe for the first time, realizing what it meant to be pregnant and alone? If Mary's sadness made sense? If the bittersweet theme worked? And what *is* going to happen at Downton? I just finished the first Downton chapter and I could be convinced to post it...<em>


	18. Chapter 18

_Author's Note: This one is a bit longer than usual. It was two chapters but I put them together so you could get a better picture of what the first day (and night) at Downton is like. Please review. I feel a bit out of sorts writing my Mary as Lady Mary in Downton. I hope, also, that you're glad I combined the chapters._

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><p>Chapter Eighteen<p>

Of course, they argued about who would meet them at the train. They all wanted to go–Cora, Violet, Isobel, Sybil, surprisingly even Edith. But of course that was impossible; how many cars could they possibly take? And with their baggage and Matthew, Mary, and Gracie too?

Finally, it was agreed upon that Sybil and Tom would meet them, nullifying (all three) grandmothers' claims and leaving them all sulky the way that compromises do. Tom agreed to drive which Granny tried her very hardest not to comment on, so there would be some familiar faces waiting for the Crawley's, and everything would fit, because Sybil would sit up front with Tom. Though Violet held his tongue, Tom couldn't help teasing her, "Do you think I should wear my old uniform, your Ladyship?"

She sniffed at him but relented. "Oh, Tom. You are funny. But I believe that joke is still a bit premature in coming." Tom and Sybil smirked at one another. He leaned over into his wife's ear to whisper, "Why, I think I'm beginning to grow on her."

Then they argued over where they should take the Crawleys once they arrived. Downton Abbey made the most sense, so everyone could be there and together. But Robert put up a particular stink about it. "I would really rather not have them for luncheon so soon," he told Cora, before turning over in their bed and ending the conversation. The next best place was Crawley House, where the little family would be staying.

"It would be a tight fit, with everyone wanting to see them so soon," Violet observed, without ill intent.

"You would say that," Isobel replied, tilting her chin up.

"Peace, peace!" Violet cried. "I just want everyone comfortable. And everyone is so nervous. And my own son is acting like a boy younger than Gracie."

"Well, at least that we can agree on that." The two women, with their newfound friendship, shared a smile. Though they would never _not _argue, it was all in good fun now.

Finally, Cora went to Robert and in her small and quiet voice explained, "They will be coming here for luncheon. If you do not wish to be here to see your daughter, the man you consider your son, and your grandchild, then you can make yourself scarce. But there is a whole house full of people and a gaggle of relatives that are simply overjoyed at the thought. So they are coming here, Robert."

"Oh, where is that train?" Sybil cried while she and Tom waited in the car the day the Crawleys would arrive.

He grinned cheekily and then snuck a kiss to her mouth. "On the tracks, dear. On the tracks."

"But not on the tracks here!" Sybil complained. "Do you know how _long_ it's been since I've seen her, or talked to her or anything? She hasn't even met Robbie!"

"What about this one?" Tom asked, placing his hand (without the chauffeur's gloves, of course) on her stomach, which protruded a great deal.

Sybil grinned at him, throwing her arms around his neck. She was always forgetting that they weren't in Ireland, that she must at least _try _to act a _little _like _Lady _Sybil. "I thought I would surprise her."

Then they heard it, the train thundering down the tracks, the steam puffing out. Sybil was out of the car like a shot, jumping up and down (alright it was _very _hard to remember to act like a _Lady_ but that had been true before she married Tom) and holding her hat on her head to keep it from blowing away she cried, "Oh, they're here!"

Tom was less enthused. He, of course, was thrilled for his wife, but he was also unsure as to the reception he would receive from Lady Mary, who at their last meeting, had been less than pleased with him, who had put her whole weight behind breaking the Bransons up. Eventually the train stopped and people began to exit. "Oh, where are they!" Sybil nearly shouted. Tom ran a hand down her back. "Patience, my dear," and she turned her face to his neck (it always soothed her), where she fit perfectly and that's how Mary first saw them, holding one another, just barely, so obviously happy, Sybil so obviously pregnant. Her heart broke with happiness: _look how happy they are, look how they fit. _She wanted to cry and knowing it was the baby, she told him/her to pipe down with the hormones.

"Well," Mary said when she reached them. "It's just like old times then." Sybil launched herself into Mary's arm, as much as a pregnant woman her size could. "Be careful," Mary admonished. "I see you're carrying precious cargo." She squeezed sister as tightly as she could manage around her belly and closed her eyes to keep the tears in her eyes.

They separated and Mary held out her hand to Tom. "Tom," she said. "Lady Mary," he replied. "Oh, Tom," she admonished. "It's Mary. We're brother and sister now," and she leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "Granny's been sending me all of your clippings."

"What?" Tom asked, rather stunned by the whole encounter.

"Well Sybil has been sending them to Granny and then Granny sends them over to me." Tom looked at Sybil who conveniently was staring at her feet. "They're marvelous, Tom. Really. I think you should write a book! I'm not just saying that because we're family. I'd love to talk about them more when we have time. I finally feel like I have some, small idea of what it means to be Irish and why it's different...and the same, of course. Oh, I'm rambling. I'm so nervous to see you! And everyone!"

Tom colored at her praise. "And where is Mr. Crawley and Miss Crawley?"

"Tom," Mary said quietly. "Please. It's Matthew and Gracie. Can't the four of us be allies with the many wars we will have to fight this month?" Tom grinned at that and Sybil began to whistle as if she didn't know what they were referring to. "The porters are bringing the bags. Matthew has Gracie. He had the window seat and she wouldn't leave him. Oh!" she cried, taking Sybil's hands in her own. "I can't wait to meet Robbie and for he and Gracie to play!"

Then Matthew was making his way towards the trio, his little girl in his arms, her dark eyes so wide as she took in the train, and the people, then she shouted, "Mama!" and much like Sybil launched herself at her mother. Matthew hugged Sybil (Sybil didn't give him much of a choice really) and shook Tom's hand. "Good to see you, Tom," he said. "I'm sure you're glad to see me, since I'm about to take the heat off your back."

"A little," Tom admitted and laughed. "Although you're safe at Crawley house and we're at the big house." Sybil pretended to pinch him.

"Gracie," Mary said, bringing the girl over to Aunt Sybil. "This is Mama's sister. She is your Aunt Sybil." For a joke, she added. "Can you say Aunt Sybil?"

Gracie peered at her Aunt, as if she could see a family resemblance. "Syb," she cried and they all laughed. Then she leaned forward out of Mary's arms, and gently touched Sybil's belly. "Baby," Gracie murmured wisely. Mary gave Sybil a look, indicating she would explain later, and moved to Tom. "This is Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom this is Gracie."

Gracie clapped her hands and Mary rolled her eyes because really her daughter was such a flirt with men. "'Om, 'Om, 'Om."

"That's how she first started to say Papa," Matthew warned, "So soon you'll both be called by your Christian names by a nineteen month old."

Tom laughed heartily as both he and Matthew packed their luggage into the car. "Well at least someone in the family will call me by my Christian name."

"Still bad?" Matthew asked, his hand on the man's shoulder.

Tom grinned and hit Matthew on the back (as was the way with men). "Well like you said, you've taken the heat off my boots. Maybe they'll start calling you Crawley."

Meanwhile the sisters were whispering closely together. "Mary, are you...?"

"I am," Mary whispered back. "But it's very early and no one knows but Matthew. I want to wait a little while..."

Gracie continued to lean over and gently pet her aunt's belly. "Baby. Syb. Baby. Baby."

Sybil laughed and the sound made Mary so happy. "Well, I think your daughter might give you away. But I understand. Those first few months...I know. And to think all of us Crawley sisters pregnant!"

Gracie went on stroking but Sybil didn't seem to mind; it felt rather good actually. "How many months are you?" Mary asked. "And Edith?"

"I'm six and Edith is five," Sybil gave a little frown. "She's having a rough go of it."

"A rough go of it or Edith's version of a rough go of it?"

Sybil laughed but then sobered. "A real rough go of it. Doctor Clarkson wants her in bed as much as possible. She's coming for luncheon today but otherwise she has to stay in bed."

"Poor Edith," Mary muttered and for the first time she meant it.

"Look, Gracie Girl!" Mary pointed as they made their way up the drive. "This is where Mama lived when she was a little girl."

"Oooh," Gracie said, not so much because of the majesty of the building (New York had plenty of impressive buildings) but because of the sound in Mama's voice, the nostalgia of it. "This is where Mama used to ride her horse, Diamond. What do horses say?"

Grace looked at her father who replied with, "Neigh!"

"Nay," Gracie repeated, then clapped. "Papa, yay!"

"It's so sweet to hear call you Mama and Papa," Sybil called back to them. "Robbie calls us Da and Mum or Mummy."

"But that's adorable," Mary enthused. "And he is half Irish!" She poked Tom in the shoulder.

For Sybil, the ride was bliss. Here was the sister that she'd laid in bed and told her secrets to, who'd she'd followed around everywhere, the girl she transformed into once their nightclothes were on and Lady Mary banished, before it was all about finding a husband. And she was being so sweet to Tom. It had to be Gracie. And Matthew. Sybil was so happy she could burst.

Tom stopped the car then turned back to ask, "D'you think they'll want me to bring it to the garage and come in the back way?"

"Tom," Mary insisted firmly. "Remember, the four of us are allies, a team." Then she turned to Matthew. He could see she was exhausted. "I think I've forgotten how to do this Lady Mary business. Can a solicitor from Manchester help a Lady? Who do I start with?"

"Your parents," he said with a sigh. He took Gracie from her and they walked towards Robert and Cora. Cora took her daughter in her arms and held her tightly, closing her eyes. It was true, there was nothing so hard as saying goodbye to a child and nothing so good as saying hello. "Hello, Mama. Thank you for having us." Out of the corner of her eye, she measured her papa. She did not think he would take her into his arms so she held out a hand, as warmly as she could manage. "Hello, Papa." Matthew greeted her parents and then Mary introduced Grace. "Gracie this is my Mama. She is your Grandmother Cora. Mama, this is Gracie."

"Co'," Gracie mimicked and Mary briefly closed her eyes, trying not to smile.

"Gracie?" Cora asked. She was trying bravely not to cry. "Would you hold my hand and walk with me while we meet everyone?" Again Gracie peered at the woman. "Co'?" she asked again. "Yes, Grandma Cora, your Mama is my baby." (She ignored Robert's comment that Grandma was such an American title). "Baby," Gracie grinned and Matthew set her down at on the gravel and Cora took her hand.

"Robert," Matthew shook his hand without Lord Grantham replying.

"Gracie, this is your Grandfather Robert. Robert this is Gracie," Cora said near the girl's ears.

"Yes, I can see that," Robert postured, but he didn't look down at the little girl so she leaned forward and tugged on his pants leg. "Ro'," she crooned. "Ro', Ro'."

Robert looked at Mary. "I see you have taught her very good manners," he said stiffly and sarcastically. Mary took the little girl from her mama with an apology in her eye. If this was how Papa was going to act then Mary wanted to stand with Gracie. There was an apology in Cora's eye but Mary shook her head nearly imperceptibly.

Matthew had already greeted Violet who had grabbed him warmly and kissed him, her cheek feeling like paper. "My boy," she whispered. "I always knew this would be how the story would end." He couldn't even laugh at her, remembering how she came into his room, just when he began to feel his legs again, and implored him to consider Mary again. _Marriage is a long time. _He smiled at her, taking Gracie into his arms. "And this is Gracie...Grace Violet." Shockingly, the old woman's eyes filled with tears. She reached out to shake the baby's hand who allowed it with dignity. "You are very pretty," Violet said. "The prettiest girl I've seen."

"Me! Yay!" she clapped while everyone laughed, including Carson (but not Robert).

"This is your Granny Violet," Matthew explained.

Naturally, Gracie replied with, "Vi, Vi, Vi, Vi!" in little shrieks.

"Oh," Violet nodded. "We must already know each other very well if you are calling me by my first name."

"I've told her all about you," Mary said, stepping forwards toward her grandmother. They both reached for one another at the same time. In some ways, Violet felt more slight in Mary's arms, but in other ways, nothing had changed, her grip strong, her perfume soothing. "Oh my dear," she whispered into Mary's ear. "Tell me this is not a dream and that you are all really here."

Mary sniffled a bit (really, baby, she thought). "It's not a dream. I can't wait to tell you everything."

Then Matthew was moving towards his mother, who took his face in her hands, while Gracie curiously watched. "My boy," she choked out. "How happy I am for you."

"Mother," he said, and hugged her, his chin on her head. "Your letter brightened our spirits so much."

"And this must be Gracie! Hello!" said Isobel. "I am your Gran Isobel."

No one was particularly surprised when Gracie shrieked, "Iz, Iz, Iz."

"I'm sorry," Mary apologized to the group. "It's been a long few days for her." Most of them gave a tinkle of laughter.

Next was Edith, Sir Antony, holding her elbow with his good arm. "Oh, Edith," Mary murmured. "I am so happy to see you." She hugged her gently. "But Sybil explained to me...And it's alright. Go to bed if you need to."

"Please," she murmured. "I'm becoming like the woman in _The Yellow Wallpaper._ Hello, Gracie!" she said. Edith was even more uncomfortable with children than Mary had been before Gracie. "Gracie, this is Aunt Edith. And Uncle Antony," who Mary gave her hand to.

"E, E, E," she cawed like a bird.

Next was Carson and Mrs. Hughes. "Carson, I want very badly to hug you but I know you would turn purple so I shall very warmly give you my hand," Mary told him softly.

"Not purple, my Lady," he said in that rare and dignified voice of his. "But perhaps red."

"This is Gracie," she introduced to both Carson and Mrs. Hughes. Carson bowed a bit and Mrs. Hughes bent her head. "Miss Crawley," he intoned.

"Oh no, Carson," Mary shook her head. "Please just call her Gracie."

"I could not, Lady Mary," he replied in that same even tone, though when no one seemed to be looking, he winked at the baby, just as he once had to her mama. She held her hands to her mouth and giggled.

"What about Miss Gracie?" Matthew implored, looking at Mary's crestfallen face. "Would that preserve my daughter's dignity and your own?"

"Of course, Master Crawley," Carson agreed and briefly wiggled his nose for Gracie who clapped.

"Gracie Girl, did you know that Carson used to play with Mama when I was a little girl?" Mary told the little girl. "He gives the very best rides and knows all the animal sounds."

"Duh?" Gracie asked.

"Carson," Mary tried to say without laughing. "She is asking you what sound a duck makes."

Carson quacked but only out of love for Lady Mary and now Miss Gracie.

"Ca, Ca," Gracie told him, extending her hand like a little Lady. Carson blushed, as if he already wasn't in love with the little girl who looked exactly like Lady Mary, her manners at so young an age, sealed the deal.

"Mrs. Hughes," Mary said, taking the woman's hand. "It is so good to see you. Granny told me that Mr. Bates and Mrs. Bates run the Grantham Arms now and that they are to have a baby."

"Yes, Lady Mary," Mrs. Hughes replied. "They are very happy and very eager to see you again."

"As am I," Mary said warmly. As the group walked into the house, Mrs. Hughes commented to Mr. Carson, "Lady Mary is much changed, I think."

"No," Carson retorted, too much emotion in her voice. "It's always how she's been. To me, to Anna, to Sybil, of course. She's just not afraid to be herself anymore."

"Robbie's asleep," Sybil told Mary as they sat for luncheon. By wordless agreement, the Crawleys and the Bransons sat in a group.

"So I am to go it alone with Gracie on my lap?" Mary whispered back while Sybil giggled.

"Luncheon is not the place for a baby," Robert intoned from the head of the table.

"Baby," Gracie replied, rubbing her Aunt's belly. "Syb. Baby."

"What a parlor trick!" Granny Violet cried.

And they were off.

Gracie behaved relatively well. The fact was that she had been stuck on a ship and then stuck on a train and then another train and then a car for a very long several days. In the cabin of the ship, she'd heard her mama be sick every morning and it made her sad. Sometimes she even cried and Papa rocked her. But now they were here, at this place. Everyone seemed to know her but she didn't know them.

They were nice though. She liked Syb's smile and belly, 'Om dimples, Co's pretty blue eyes, the way Vi smelled, like her favorite stuffed animal (lavender, not that Gracie knew that), the way Iz touched Papa, E's friendly wave, Ca's tricks with his nose and his eyes and the duh sound, even that other lady's hair seemed nice and curled. But she had not liked the tall man, who would not look at her. She'd even tugged at his pants but he hadn't even smiled at her or cheered. He hadn't winked like Ca or laughed like Sybil.

Now Mama was spearing peas onto her fork to feed to her. She didn't like peas but she didn't hate them either. She could tell Mama wanted her to eat them so she did. "Mmm," she said, even though they were only peas.

"Carson," Mama called. "Please tell Mrs. Padmore that Gracie enjoyed her cooking."

"I will pass on Miss Gracie's compliments," he replied stubbornly.

Suddenly, Gracie was very sleepy. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, then curled into her mother and fell completely asleep. As she did, she heard the tall man say, "That's exactly why baby's should not be welcomed at the table."

* * *

><p>They left soon after. Mary had taken Grace to the sitting room and was holding the baby who lay as limp could be in her arms. Mary herself looked exhausted. He promised himself he would make it his business to see she had plenty of rest in the next few days. God, the next seven and a half months.<p>

She'd even begun to doze herself so he went to them and lifted Grace into his arms who curled there as she always did and took Mary's hand. "The chauffeur will drive us to Crawley House. Mother and Cousin Violet are coming with us to show us the improvements to the house." Dazed, Mary closed her eyes for a minute, squeezing his hand before letting it go. Anyone could see. "Then," Matthew continued. "It's right to bed for you."

"What about dinner?"

"It will just be mother and maybe Cousin Violet if she stays. They'll understand."

She smiled sleepily. "Will they?"

"Tomorrow we're supposed to come back here for dinner but if you don't look more rested we won't." Mary reached for his hand. She didn't care who saw. "And my father?" she asked quietly but he only kissed her brow. There was nothing else to say.

Gracie's nursery was beyond Mary imaginings. She'd expected her Granny to insist on something quite formal but she had not. Somehow, in all the letters she'd written to her Granny over the years, Violet _listened_ and knew that Mary wouldn't like it. The walls were a pale, happy yellow, trimmed in a bright white, with white furniture and a white rocking chair that made her want to cry a little. The carpet was soft enough for a baby's feet. The bedding inside the crib was lavender, an homage to her Gracie's room. "It's beautiful," Mary whispered as she turned around in it. "You two have done a beautiful job."

Violet and Isobel met each other's eyes briefly, hearing the tears in Mary's voice. "Mary," Violet asked tentatively, "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes," she said, smiling, unaware that her hands had betrayed her and were lying against her still flat stomach. "I am quite alright. And this room is the most beautiful nursery I've ever seen."

Again, Violet and Isobel looked at one another meaningfully. "Well let us show you the master," Isobel went out and they followed.

"The master? Oh, but we couldn't!" Mary cried and Matthew laid a hand on her shoulder before she burst in to tears. The room here again was simple and to her tastes. The walls were a deep, nearly silver gray. The bed was an antique and the bedding looked like melted silver itself. "Oh, you two have out done yourselves," Mary complimented them.

"It was great fun," Isobel claimed with Violet nodding.

"Mary," Mathew said, catching her eye meaningfully. "I think you should have a lie down. It's been a long journey and a long day."

She nodded but asked, "What about Grace?"

"I'll change her and rock her," he smiled. "I'll bet you a fifty cents she sleeps straight through the night."

"Cents?" Violet retorted. "What need do have for cents here? Have you gone over too, Matthew?"

After dinner with his mother and Cousin Isobel where they asked every question that could possibly be asked about Gracie and their lives and what Gracie liked and if they happened to be shopping what did Gracie need (with a few pointed questions towards Mary's health), Cousin Violet called for her chauffeur and Mosely helped her put on her jacket.

"Matthew," she demanded. "Come here." From her bag, she took a pile of letters, tied with a lavender ribbon. "I want to give you these."

"What are they, Cousin Violet?"

"Violet," she corrected. "They're all the letters Mary wrote to me about Gracie. I wanted to wait, to see you with her, to see how you were with them, before I gave them to you. But now I know, without a doubt, that they belong to you and that you should read them. All I want in return is the photographs tucked in since Mary herself has copies."

"Cousin Violet..." he began, his mouth feeling as if it were filled with cotton.

"Violet!" she corrected sharply.

He smiled at her. "You've moved me, Violet."

"Hmph," she snorted. "Wait until you read those letters."

He went upstairs soon after, his mother noting his exhaustion. She only asked one more time: "And Mary...she is quite alright?" Matthew implored her with his eyes to stop asking, to trust him so she quieted and they said goodnight. She only cried a little after he went up. _Her boy! Her boy was home! And happy! And married and in love! With a little girl! ...And maybe another one already on the way!_

Per usual, Mary was asleep, burrowed beneath the silver blankets, looking like a sleeping Princess in that bed. He laughed when he saw she was wearing one of her old high necked nightgowns (he could practically hear her hiss: _we are living with your mother!) _but he had no doubt as to his powers of persuasions that he could introduce Mrs. Larsen's nightdresses to the silver room. It was the longest they'd gone without one another, since they'd shared a room with Gracie on the ship. "It will be fine," she'd begged him. But he'd been resolute: "What if she wakes up and sees?" Only once had he given in, when she'd slid all the way down the beneath the covers and taken him into her mouth, finishing him that way, while he stuffed the pillow into his mouth to keep from making a sound with one hand, and held her hair in his other hand.

Though the memory warmed him (more than _warmed _him), it looked, based on the way she was sleeping, that it would be another night without one another. Though disappointed, he was very glad that she was getting much needed sleep.

Though he was tired, he lit a candle and went to the little desk by the window, to undo the ribbon's knot and open the first letter. He could not wait to read them, to know what it had really been like for her, to maybe even know something to expect this time around too.

_Dearest Granny,_

_Thank you for your separate letter after Mama shared the news with you. I'm not upset that you know. How could I be when I named her after you?_

_I will tell you a story, one I haven't even told Mama. You see, I didn't pick any names before she was born. I was too afraid. I wanted her already, you see. And I'd learned not to want things anymore. But when the doctor laid her on my breast (I was beastly to the doctor, Granny) and I saw her dark hair, like mine, and her little eyes opened, so dark already, her eyelashes curling, a phrase came back to me from church. I know you're clutching yourself right now, thinking: Mary, remembers something from church? The truth is, I didn't know that I did remember anything, until that sweet girl was laid on my chest and I began to cry, then she began to cry, and I had to (for who else would?) comfort her. I remembered the word Grace, how it meant unmerited favor, something given when not deserved or earned. And I thought well here she is, here is my Grace._

_Then later they asked about a middle name. Grace and I had both been dozing and I thought of what I wanted for this little baby, who would surely grow into a little girl, and then a little lady, and then a woman. I wanted her to be strong. I wanted her to be brave. I wanted her to be unafraid to say hard things (as I often am). I wanted her to be tough. I cried a little then because I knew, because of circumstances beyond her control (or mine) that it wasn't just that I wanted her to be those things but that she must be those things in order to thrive. I wanted her to thrive. So she is Grace Violet._

_The truth is Granny, that in holding her those first few minutes, then those first few hours, then those first few days, I began to thrive. It was as if she made me strong, and brave, and tough, and unafraid to say hard things. So you see, her name is a miracle just as much as she is._

_All our love,_

_Mary and Grace Violet_

It made him cry, for so many reasons, to think of Grace just born, to think of how miraculous of a woman Mary had to have been (and was) to look at the baby and immediately know _Grace_. He pictured her mostly alone in that house, dreaming dreams for her daughter in that rocking chair, and swore if they stayed he would have Mrs. Larsen ship it. It made him happy and sad to read who she was then (a woman he never knew), a tenderness in her words he'd never heard when he'd known her before, and the woman she became, the woman he knew now. How could he have thought her so cool, so impossibly cool? So he could say anything to her, any hurting thing, and it wouldn't matter, when it was clear in these letters that what people said to Lady Mary very much mattered. He rubbed his hand over his jaw and opened the next letter.

_Dearest Granny,_

_You asked if I am lonely._

_I used to be, at the beginning of fall, when I had to find an extra blanket for my bed, and I woke in the night with his name on my breath and his blue eyes in my mind, alone in a big bed. Yes, then I was lonely. But then I would feel the baby kicking, and I would rub my belly to soothe her, and I reminded myself that dreams were only dreams and that I'd been living in one since he came into all of our lives. Then, the baby would kick again and I would think, **this,** this is real. And no, I wasn't lonely anymore._

_Then she came! For a moment (alright, several hours) with the doctor demanding I push, with no one's hand to hold but the nurse's, I was lonely. But I reminded myself that this was my choice and this was my reality. Then she was in my arms and I thought, what are dreams compared to this?_

_So now, I wake in the middle of the night with no one's name on my breath but hers and no one's blue eyes in my mind, only brown. I wake up to a baby stirring in the bassinet by my bed. I pick her up in my arms and she is real and solid (though tiny). I take a hold of her in my mind. I note that I must cut her nails tomorrow because she's given herself a tiny scratch. I kiss it. Her cheek is real beneath my lips, the softest thing I've ever felt. I feed her myself (I know your thoughts on this) and Granny, when she is suckling, her hand laying on my breast, her brown eyes looking up at me, I don't even remember what it means to be lonely. It seems so strange that I once was._

_Don't worry about me. I love and I am loved. _

_Mary_

The tears that threatened began to fall in earnest now. _How stupid he had been. How foolhardy. _He wished he could go back to the young man he was then and shake him: _don't you know what you are risking? don't you know what you could miss out on? don't you know what you are doing to her, to them, to you?_

In the meantime, Mary sat up sleepily, her hair all around her, her nightdress pulling on her throat because she'd grown used to sleeping naked beside her husband, after he removed whatever silly nightdress she wore. "What is it?" she asked huskily, startling him. She'd woken up already wanting him, and she throbbed and reached for him, his place was empty.

"Oh, it's nothing," he lied, because he so desperately did not want to upset her.

"What are you reading?" she asked, standing and walking over to him, climbing on top of his lap so that swivel chair tilted back quite a bit.

"It's nothing," he repeated, but by now she could already see the tears he'd tried to brush away, by the light of the candle. She glanced down and saw her own hand writing and read the first line: _You asked if I am lonely._

"Granny gave you these," she murmured, her finger running over the large stack of them. "She shouldn't of. They've made you sad. You needn't be."

Defensively, he pulled the stack away from her. "Well they're mine now and I am going to read them. All of them. Someday."

"But you're sad," she murmured again, leaning forward to take his face in her hands, feeling dried tears, and kissed him, long, slow, and deep. The chair squeaked.

When she finished, he pressed a kiss to each corner of her mouth. "Not just sad. Angry, at myself. Proud, of the woman writing those letters, mothering that baby. Thankful, that I happened upon you and Grace in the park that day. They just make me...feel." He laughed a little, to appease her. "Your granny said they would move me. She, as usual, was right."

Her hands slid from his cheeks, to his shoulders, to his neck, to wrap around him. "I love you," she whispered, kissing him again. "Please don't be sad."

He smiled, for her benefit. "You know," and he clutched her bottom, "This is a swivel chair. And you are on top of me."

"I'm comforting you," she said in a rather dignified _Lady _Mary voice. "I'm not trying to start something with your mother down the hall."

He was already pulling the bottom of her nightgown up by the hem and without realizing it she'd raised her arms to help him, her hands going to his pants. "We'll be quiet," he begged, sucking on her neck. "It's been _days."_

"Watch you don't leave a mark for your mother to see!" she croaked.

Just to be obstinate, he sucked long and hard, beneath her jaw until he was satisfied there would definitely be mark. She groaned. "I don't remember you being this demanding in New York, Mrs. Crawley." She moaned when his thumbs began to brush her breasts. "Now remember what you said, my mother is just down the hall. You have to be quiet." He smiled as he drew out the kiss.

"I'm no good at being quiet. You know that better than anyone," she replied, biting his lip, and soothing it with her tongue as he lifted himself off the chair so he could shimmy his pants off halfway off to his knees.

"Better learn," he told her breathlessly, slipping his finger inside of her, turning it to stroke inside of her. She began to quake. He could feel her lips vibrating against his shoulder. He removed his finger and lifted her on top of him, filling her, and they sighed together. _Finally. Here. This. _He had to lift her and bring her down on top of him, much like the day on the couch, because of the confines of the wooden swivel chair that squeaked horribly. It was slow and sweet and...everything. By the end, when he'd begun to speed up, both of them close, and she'd murmured, "harder" into his ear, and they'd both bit the other's shoulder to keep from crying out, they realized the swivel chair, besides squeaking, had wheels, and they'd traveled across the room, until they were crammed between the bed and the wall. They swallowed one another's laughs with each other's mouths. When he carried her to bed, kicking his pants and things all the way off, her legs wrapped around him, he whispered into her ear, "Well look there. Another one off your list. And on our first night too...with my mother down the hall."

They lay spooned together after, bringing that silver cover up over them; his hand cupped her breast just because he could, their legs completely tangled so even they did not know whose leg belonged to who. "You're insatiable," she said and grinned into the pillow they shared.

"Me?" he cried quietly in shock and pressed a kiss to the bite on her shoulder. "Me? Who climbed on my lap..."

"To comfort you," she hissed. "I saw that you were upset and I came to comfort you."

"Well, darling, you have done," he replied, quite jolly. "Now please sleep because I need my rest, woman. I know how handsy you can get. Especially in my _mother's _house," he teased.

"Me? Me?" she turned in his arms, her breasts pressed against his chest. Her hands around his waist and then lower to grasp his bottom in her hands. He made a low sound in his throat. She brought her leg over his hip. "Me? Me?" she repeated, but this time her voice was low, throaty.

"You," he said, and filled her again.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: How realistic were these reactions to these people? It's kind of tough to introduce SO many new characters so I appreciate the critique. Also, what has changed? And what hasn't? Also, shout out to URMYSTICK because I know you loved that last bit.<em>


	19. Chapter 19

_Author's Note: First, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU to **Faeyero **for being my very first beta and putting up with a lot in this chapter. BECAUSE A LOT GOES DOWN IN THIS CHAPTER. And she definitely made it better. Also I would like to say hello to **Faeyero's Mom, **because she sounds like a cool mom to me. Sorry that I haven't been updating like mad...I was running a fever today and again, this is a long chapter when compared to the La La Happy Times in New York. Never fear, though, I will continue to update as frequently I can. I am a reader too, so I know how frustrating it can be. But, good news, the chapters will be longer and more intense. I can't wait to read your reactions to this...Okay, so I posted this with a fever (if we were talking in person I would say that word like this feevah, and there were some glaring mistakes, as well as some minor additional info that should have been added but wasn't. Not the fault of my beta, but the fault of me and my feevah. Sorry if you subscribe are getting another email. In other news, I am hoping, praying, believing that another chapter will be posted tonight._

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><p>Chapter Nineteen<p>

Though they crossed an ocean together, he felt her leave the bed very early in the morning and watched as she stumbled to the bathroom, a hand over her mouth, without asking for him. He was a light sleeper though and sighing, Matthew slid from the bed as well. He knew it was no use–some mornings she was a little weepy and allowed him to comfort her, to place a wet rag on the back of her neck, but most mornings she wanted to be completely alone. He understood that some of it was just the capriciousness of pregnancy but he was fearful that there was a more significant reason to it. He remembered her in New York, very honestly saying, "I'm out of practice," but that had been before: before they married, before they made love for the first time (and the second and the third...), before he officially became Grace's father. But he was beginning to think she was most out of practice when it came to allowing anyone to help her in the midst of pregnancy.

He made his way to the bathroom door. In the midst of gagging, she managed enough breath to say, "Please. Please. Just go."

He did as she asked but he couldn't help but think that those were the words a pregnant _Lady_ Mary would have said to him, if he'd proposed after Lavinia died, and if they had conceived a child _then_. The creeping out of bed, the _please, please, just go–_that was exactly how _Lady_ Mary would have handled the weakness of morning sickness, probably while carrying a mountain of worry: _what if it is not a boy? What will I do?_

But hadn't they come so far from that? Both of them independently and then together as well? He thought that they had but it worried him; what if there was something about Downton, in the air, in the water, something that kept them further apart from one another (though they'd been close enough last night). He smiled a little ruefully at himself. It wasn't the air or the water, of course. It was the tension of seeing her father, the pain of little Gracie tugging on her Grandfather's trousers. It was the way people watched them, watched her, to see how she'd changed, to see if she would make a mistake. It was the protocol and the staidness. It was the very opposite of a New York love nest.

He found the swivel chair and rolled it back into place and opened another letter from Mary to her Granny.

_Dear Granny,_

_Did you always know you would be a mother? I mean to say, was it always a duty impressed upon you? Or was it something that you wanted? I've heard some girls talk about getting married **so **they could experience motherhood. It seemed to me that every time marriage and motherhood were brought up in my presence, the word "duty" preceded them. _

_It is your duty to marry Patrick, Mary. It is your duty to be a mother to his sons, Mary. I'm not complaining. When I lived at Downton, I understood. I even believed in the importance of my duty. But since leaving, my feelings have changed. _

_I've heard Papa say it enough times to know he believes **"the estate has been his third parent and his fourth child."** So I think I understand how angry he is with me (you and Mama are both very gentle about it, but I know he is furious with me), because **I have betrayed one of my grandparents and also one of my siblings in one foul swoop.** When I sit quietly and pretend I am back at Downton, I remember the weight of duty and I think I understand him better. _

_It was different for you, of course. A son came first and then a daughter. Those were also different times._

_But when I am rocking my girl in my arms I think: this is my _duty_? this is my cross? _

_Why is that no one ever told me how much joy could be in a woman's heart, after she has finished hours of labor, and she hears that first wail of the baby she waited nine months for and quite literally labored like mad for? When I feed Grace, and she suckles against me (please no lectures, Granny) and my heart feels as if it is turning over in my chest...why didn't anyone ever tell me that would happen?_

_I once asked someone: "Are you a creature of duty?" I was flirting at the time, but I find myself thinking of that question these days. **Am I creature of duty? **If I could ask myself that question now, I would say: "Oh, yes!" _

_It is my duty to feed my child, to change her nappy. It is my duty to rock her to sleep. It is my duty to put a blanket over her at night. I cut her fingernails, ever so carefully, those tiny fingers, so she doesn't hurt herself and that is my duty, too. I would say, "These are my duties and I am a creature of them. And I am happy. Because it isn't a duty at all if you do it for love."__ Perhaps this is exactly how Papa feels about his duties, about his second parent and fourth child._

_Sometimes I read my letters over before I send them to you and I think "Granny won't want to hear that!" I almost tear them up but instead I send them. You write me back, still so Granny in tone, but you tell me all the magical things I never knew about you, about being a mother, a grandmother, and now a great grandmother. What it meant to you to be a mother, what it felt like after nine hours of labor to hear "It's a boy!" after your mother in law had been on you and on you since before the wedding. I feel I know you better. I feel you know me better. I could never say these things to you in person._

_You know, Granny, you are also a creature of duty. Not like Papa. Never like Papa. You fought for me, not for the estate, or the money, or the title, but for your granddaughter. You were the first and the last to ask, "What about Mary?" You fought because I am your family and therefore your duty. But now it's clear to me that you also did it all out of love._

_When you went to Matthew, and you told him to marry me and not Lavinia, after his legs began to work again, that was a duty as well. A duty you did for love of me and maybe even him. _

_When you found me in the small library, and you shut the door, and you protected me, and you touched my hand, and you lied to me and said the worst was over, and you did not cry, and your voice was so strong, that was duty as well. Duty to me. Duty out of love. _

_When you came to me everyday, and just sat with me, quietly, silently really, that was duty. It was love too. _

_When you kept Matthew from me at dinners and luncheons, because I could not speak, my voice had been stolen, that was duty borne of love as well. _

_And when you read my letter to the family, facing the firing squad, you did your duty and you loved me, all the while. _

_**Why is it that men can never understand that duty and love are not two but one?** I love you so much, Granny. I am so glad I named my daughter after you. You are my best friend in the world right now._

_Mary_

A photograph was included. Matthew saw the back first. _Grace Violet Crawley, 3 months._ It was in Mary's writing. He knew he was probably crying but he could not find it within himself to be ashamed when he turned the photograph over and saw baby Grace, so tiny, her face nearly swallowed by a lacy bonnet, her dark eyes reflecting light, her perfect little lips. He wished he could go back. He had never known how badly regret could hurt. Oh, he'd thought he had known regret. When they told him he would never walk again or do anything else for that matter, he regretted not finding a girl somewhere, anywhere, it wouldn't matter who, and taking her home one night to know what it was like to make love with a woman. Dancing with Mary knowing he had to marry Lavinia, regret–that had been piercing. But that was nothing, nothing compared to this. _Why is it that men can never understand that duty and love are not two but one?_

Mary came out of the bathroom wearing a simple dress and skirt. She didn't like to wear a corset because of the baby (she'd read recently that doctors were strongly advising against it) but already her mother had noticed her lack of corset and offered to find her someone, even offering up O'Brien as a loan. It was difficult. She hadn't had a ladies maid in New York; she didn't particularly need one here since she would be getting fatter by the day. And she simply couldn't bear the thought of anyone but Anna dressing her.

"Matthew..." she began but she saw he was at the desk, reading her letters, with tears in his eyes. "Never mind," she snapped.

For a moment, he was befuddled, his mind still on the letter. It was as if there was more than one Mary in the room. There was the Mary who'd written this letter, the creature of duty, who dutifully wrote Grace's age on the back of the photograph. There was the woman who climbed on top of him last night in the chair he'd had since University. Then, of course, there was _Lady _Mary with her _please, just go, go _and her _neverminds. _He remembered watching her walk down the stairs in New York, in bare feet, her hair in a braid, and he'd thought _who are you and why is it you that I keep coming back to? _He felt even farther away from an answer to that question now that they were at Downton.

* * *

><p>Mary checked in on Gracie, who still slept (it had been a very taxing journey for her) then continued her way downstairs. She didn't want Matthew reading those letters, blubbing away at her pain, pitying her. She'd never wanted those things from him. Never. Why had he never understood that? When she had lain in the library, completely broken, a shred, just a shred of the person she was minutes before and he had tried to touch her, and she had cried out because she didn't want his pitiful touches, he hadn't understood. She did not want his sympathy. She didn't want that from anyone. And in her letter of goodbye to the family, when she'd so plainly expressed her wishes to be left alone, he did not listen to her then either. He never listened; he never heard.<p>

A part of her knew she was being irrational and unfair. Of course he listened; of course he heard. Well, after sicking her guts up, she felt irrational. She felt angry. Didn't he understand that she wasn't the woman who had written those letters anymore? Didn't he see? Did he think that he could unlock some secret code to Lady Mary's heart?

She suddenly realized she was thinking of herself **as** Lady Mary and she wasn't her anymore. She'd given her away years ago and gladly. It was as if she was holding up her hands, to block Matthew's view, so he could not see her face. She would apologize when he came down. What had she said once? _I always apologize when I am in the wrong._

When she went downstairs to the table, no one was up yet, but Moleslely. "Just tea for me please," she requested.

He hesitated for a moment; she must still have had a pallor about her. "Lady Mary, what about a spot of dry toast to go along with it?" She was nodding because maybe that would be good, a bit of tea and a bite of toast, when she saw the small box, wrapped in red paper, addressed to: Lady Mary Crawley and beneath her name the address at Crawley House. It was so strange. There was no return address and surely her family would have given her any gift in person. For a moment, a heartbeat, she thought it might be from Papa. But then she remembered Gracie tugging on his pants and knew, no matter how much she wished it, this gift was not from him.

It was curious. But it did have her name on it. She was Lady Mary. She did live here. So she opened it. Beneath the red paper was a velvet case, the type filled with expensive jewelry, and she was even more perplexed. Surely, after the diamonds on her finger, the engagement ring and two bands, Matthew wouldn't be so stupid as to ply her with more jewels. Upon opening the box, she saw a gorgeous and yet somehow vulgar ruby necklace, made of three tiers covered in diamonds. A note was attached to read once the box was opened.

_Mary,_

_Congratulations on your recent wedding. Welcome back to England._

_Richard_

And a post script:

_I always loved you in red._

For the first time in her life, Mary fainted dead away, the note falling from her fingers, underneath the table, the necklace poured out on the table like blood on the beautiful Irish linen tablecloth.

* * *

><p>Matthew had planned to read another letter. There were so many of them, nearly three years worth. Should he continue to go in order or just pick one randomly? If Mary was mad at him over it, so be it. Someone had to answer his original question: <em>who is this woman and why is she the one I keep coming back to? <em>Even if those answers were written in Mary's own hand.

A shout came from Moleslely downstairs, "Mr. Crawley! Mr. Crawley!" and then, "Mrs. Crawley!" Matthew could tell from his tone of voice, the sharpness of his yell, the urgency of it, that something was very wrong. He couldn't recall any other time when Moleslely sounded _urgent._

He rushed down the stairs to find his wife curled on the floor, unconscious, as if she'd fallen off the chair. He ran to her, murmuring her name, trying not to remember the last time he'd found her on the floor, her legs splayed like that.

"Mary," he whispered. "Mary."

Then his mother was padding halfway down the stairs in her robe. "I'll call Dr. Clarkson and be right down."

"Mary," Matthew repeated, his thumbs on her cheeks. Briefly her eyes fluttered (oh God, it was like that night all over again) but then closed. "Mary!" he said more sharply but she'd passed out again.

"I went to get her tea and toast," Moleslely kept repeating. "Just tea and toast. That's all she wanted."

Finally, Matthew couldn't take it anymore. He lifted his wife in his arms just as his mother was came down the stairs again. "Matthew," she said gently. "You really shouldn't move her."

"She's a month and a half pregnant," he snapped. "I'm not just going to leave her on the floor." He froze: _Oh God, she's going to kill me for telling. But even if she's yelling at me, please let her wake up. _He knew how to deal with an angry Mary, not an unconscious one.

Isobel continued down the stairs. Later she wondered why: if it was Matthew's possessiveness, or maybe her obstinate nature. (God knew she didn't mind barging in anywhere). But for some reason, she went downstairs. She got on her hands and knees to pick up the dry toast. She didn't see any blood on the carpet, any place Mary hit her head.

But she did see, however, a piece of paper beneath the table, which she picked up and read. When she stood up, she saw the jewels. While Moleslely was getting a rag to sop up the tea from the carpet, Isobel took the jewels and the note up to her room and hid them in a drawer of her vanity. Not for a second did she consider that Mary was involved in any way with Sir Richard. Even his name made _Isobel's _skin crawl and she'd barely dealt with the man. She only knew that the breaking of their engagement had been dramatic enough that no one mentioned his name, as if it were a curse or as if he had never existed at all.

When Isobel had asked Cousin Violet about it a few days after Sir Richard left so abruptly, Cousin Violet would not meet her gaze. She only said, "I cannot speak of that man," her lips the firmest Isobel had ever seen them, her hand white knuckled on her stick.

"How is Mary taking all of this?" Isobel asked next; she'd felt she was only being polite but Violet pounded her stick into the ground repeating, "I cannot speak of it." In fact, the Dowager Countess had looked positively ill.

Isobel couldn't help wanting to know more; in many ways her son's happiness was at stake. So she went to Matthew next. "So, Mary finally sacked Carlisle?" she concluded in their normal tone of camaraderie.

But he'd turned away from her so she could not see his face. "Yes, he is gone," Matthew replied quietly. "She is not marrying him."

"Well, I've made it very clear how I feel about the subject. I really think you and Mary ought..."

"You know nothing." It was the harshest he'd ever spoken to her and he'd left the room soon after.

Isobel knew the family had never been keen on Sir Richard. Under normal circumstances, Cousin Violet would have been positively elated that the engagement was over, perhaps even giving a toast at dinner. Matthew, as well, in the days leading up to the end of the engagement had seemed intent on convincing Mary to end things for her benefit alone. Then, Mary left Downton for good not long after. No, Isobel couldn't have been more certain that something much more sinister than a simple ending of an engagement had taken place that night or perhaps been going on even longer.

* * *

><p>After she hid the note and jewels, she went to Matthew, opening the closed door and barged in as if she'd found nothing abnormal. "When is Clarkson coming?" he asked. He'd brought a chair over to the side of Mary's bed so he could hold her hand.<p>

"As quickly as possible," Isobel replied.

Mary moaned briefly, her eyes fluttering open. Matthew pressed his lips to her hand. "Mary, it's all right."

"The baby," she whispered through lips that were as white as the sheets she lay on. "The baby...Rubies."

Isobel reached for Mary's other hand, "I've taken care of it," she soothed. Matthew in his worry and panic barely noticed the exchange. "Mary, my darling, don't even think of it."

She squeezed Isobel's hand weakly in gratitude. "The card?" she asked.

"What is she talking about? What card?" Matthew asked his mother, looking so much like a little boy wanting to be told that monsters were not real and his nightmares could not come true.

"She's probably still dizzy," Isobel told him. "It's no cause for panic." But Isobel gripped Mary's hand to confirm that she'd also taken care of the card.

Mary peered at her for a moment, blinking at Isobel's face. "Thank you," she whispered. "For taking care of me. And everything."

"It's nothing," Isobel replied as cheerfully as possible. "Why, when I was pregnant with Matthew, I sometimes would just lay down on the kitchen floor, I would get so dizzy." Later, she thought. Later, after Dr. Clarkson examined her, and Matthew calmed down, Isobel would show them what she'd found. She could not bear to add to Mary or Matthew's distress by bringing up Sir Richard.

"She's been so sick," he whispered. "In the mornings."

"That's normal too," Isobel replied, passing a hand over his head which was bent over his wife's hand.

"Mama!" said a very demanding voice from the doorway. "Papa!" She walked over to him and and did her best to monkey onto the bed. Matthew quickly picked her up so as not to disturb Mary. "We have to lower the crib. She's become a bit of an escape artist," he tried to joke.

"Gracie," Mary murmured, smiling, trying to make her voice sound as normal as possible. "Good morning, darling. Won't you reach down here and give Mama a kiss?"

Though it pained Matthew to do so, since he knew how clumsy Gracie's kisses and hands could be, he leaned the baby over to less than gently kiss her mother. Did Mary really need a toddler climbing all over her now? Did Mary really need to run through this charade when she could barely keep her eyes open?

"Gracie, you give the best kisses," Mary said weakly. "May I have another before Papa takes you to your room to change you and to play with you for awhile?" He leaned over with the baby again but his eyes clearly stated: _if you think I am leaving you like this then you are absolutely crazy._

Lady Mary's dark eyes fired back at him. When she spoke, it was through her teeth and as cheerfully as possible as to not alarm Gracie. "I don't need you. She does. Now are you her papa or not?"

"Bye! Bye!" Gracie called as she waved and Mary lifted a weary hand as Matthew, dismissed, took the baby to the room next door.

"You are," Isobel said with a heavy sigh, "A very good mother."

"Isobel," Mary murmured. "You got rid of it?" She squeezed her hand again. "I don't even know how he knows I'm back here or that I'm married. He only wants to hurt Matthew, you see. He wants to make Matthew angry so he does something stupid. So we mustn't tell Matthew. We mustn't. I can explain more later. Please?" she begged.

Isobel squeezed Mary's hand. "Alright," she agreed even though it was clear as day to Isobel: _it's not Matthew he wants to hurt. _

"I didn't want to tell anyone, about the baby, until I was farther along," Mary whispered, holding her hand to her still flat belly.

"That's understandable," Isobel consoled. "That's normal."

"Six weeks. That's so small, so short. Do...Do you think the baby is all right?" she asked, her eyes welling up with tears.

But then Dr. Clarkson (Dr. Clarkson: it was all so strange, for a moment it was as if the last three years had not happened) came into the room, and announced, "I've heard you took a tumble, Lady Mary." He was smiling beneath his mustache which had to be a good sign. For some reason, it struck Mary as funny that he didn't wear a uniform.

"Let me go get Matthew and I'll stay with Gracie until you're finished, all right?" Isobel asked and the fact that she asked permission to care for Grace, that she thought of Grace at all, had Mary nodding. "Wait for Matthew," Isobel implored the Doctor, but it wasn't two seconds before Matthew was in the room and closing the door behind him, walking to the bed and holding Mary's hand.

"It's always best to ask what happened before we get worked up," Dr. Clarkson said, mostly for the benefit of Matthew's who looked as if Mary was on her death bed.

"I'm about six weeks pregnant," she explained calmly, though she didn't have much confidence in Dr. Clarkson's abilities, not after the debacle with Matthew. "I've been sick in the mornings. Which was how I was with my previous pregnancy. This morning, I don't know what happened, I went down stairs and sat down for breakfast and the next thing I knew I was up here." There was no way that she would speak of the box to Matthew at all. (God, knew what he would do) Moreover, to blame the box and the note would be even worse.

"Were you standing?" Dr. Clarkson asked.

"No," Mary replied very primly. "I was sitting at the table."

"It looked like she sort of just slid off the chair," Matthew added.

"I understand you've been traveling quite a bit, and with a toddler, these past few days?" Dr. Clarkson asked. Mary nodded.

Dr. Clarkson examined her head for any injuries (there were none, thanks to the carpet), then had her following his light with her eyes. "Well you don't have a concussion."

"Dr. Clarkson," she said as gently as possible, "I don't give a flying fig if I have a concussion. I want to know if my baby is okay."

"Are you bleeding? Spotting any blood?" he asked bluntly.

"I...I don't know," she whispered.

"It's too early in the pregnancy for me to hear a heartbeat even if everything is perfectly all right," he explained. "We can wait until tomorrow and see if you are sick again if it's like you say, you've been sick everyday. It's probably the the travel combined with the sick, that you simply were dehydrated. Push the fluids," he commanded Matthew.

"So," Lady Mary said slowly, as if she were trying to learn ancient greek. "You're telling me the only way we can know if our baby is alive is to wait until tomorrow, and see if I vomit?"

He winced at her tone. He was used to getting it from Lady Grantham. From Lord Grantham. Sometimes from Lady Sybil in years past. Even from Mrs. Crawley, of course. But not usually from Lady Mary. Yet he could remember a check up with Lady Mary when she fell from her horse; she was as docile as a lamb until her mother began to blame the horse for the fall, wondering aloud if another horse might be safer or suit her better. "It isn't Diamond's fault I fell," she replied rather fiercely to her mother. "He is my horse and I will continue to ride him," she hissed.

"I'll be able to hear a heartbeat with my stethoscope at around twenty or twenty four weeks," he explained.

"Keep an eye out for blood or spotting. Call me if you find any. If not, I will come back tomorrow to check on you. You should spend a few days in bed, regardless...Drink lots of water."

"Regardless if I miscarried or not?" she asked, her face still turned away. He nodded but she didn't see it.

"How many days?" she asked, in that same hard tone. "You said several days. But I have a very active nineteen month old to look after."

Dr. Clarkson looked at Matthew. "It depends on the outcome."

"The outcome," she laughed and...then she was crying. Doctor Clarkson gave a nod to Matthew before leaving. There was nothing else he could do for them.

"Matthew," she said after the Doctor left and he sat on the bed beside her. She still wouldn't look at him. "You wouldn't go with Grace when I needed you to. Why?"

"I was worried about you," he said softly.

"I need you to worry about _her,_" she cried out rather loudly. "I need you to think of _her_ before you think of _me_. She could easily have been upset by the fact that something was obviously wrong with her mama." She was crying in earnest now.

"_If _you're going to be her father then..." She made it sound as if she was reconsidering this whole arrangement, the arrangement being their marriage.

"If?" he whispered, pain, nearly physical pain, lancing through him. For weeks, at first, he had expected her to say something like this by mistake. But then she never had. She shared Gracie completely. And this was not said by mistake but with deliberation. Suddenly he found himself yelling. "If? After everything, _if_?"

"I need to know I can count on you. What if something happens to me? What if I die giving birth, will you..."

"Stop it!" he yelled again. "_You need to know if you can count on me. _When will you know that, do you think? Because I've been there every step of the way for..."

"Two months," she replied quietly, cutting him off at the knees. "That's not very long when you consider it. Two months of ten years."

"I don't want to hear anymore of this _if something happens to me _business. None of it. I'm serious, Mary." He turned his back to her. He had to in order not to throttle her or lay his head in her lap and weep. She hadn't considered that he'd found her, lying there. She hadn't considered that he had memories too.

"But what if...What will happen to Grace?" she was weeping now, hysterically. "I never thought about it before. How could I not have thought of it? Even before you? What happens to Grace? What if I'm gone? Who would take her? Where would she go? I've always been the one to take care of her. Me! And what if I'm not here..."

He took her into his arms and wondered how it was possible to love someone so completely, be so incredibly angry at her, and want to hold her at the same time. He stroked her hair. "After I answer this question, I don't want to hear you talk about it anymore," he warned her, forcing himself to be gentle when he wanted to scream and shake her. "If anything were ever to happen to you, I would take care of Grace. And I don't want to hear you ever again asking _if I'm going to be her father. _**I am her father**. Do you understand?" He felt her nod against his chest. Then he lifted her face, wiping the tears from her eyes with his clumsy hands. Fear made everything about him clumsy. He was a clumsy father and a clumsy husband. "Now you're going to sleep and take care of _our baby _and I'm going to take care of _our daughter. _I'll bring you a big glass of water and you'll drink all of it. Maybe Gracie, you, and I can read a book on the bed. Then you will rest. Do you understand?" She nodded and curled into the covers. He tucked her in. What else could he do?

* * *

><p>Later that night, he read another letter. Everyone was already asleep. He had no one to talk to, to even explain what today had been like for him. He'd grown used to falling asleep, wrapped around Mary, as they talked about everything, their day, or their plans. He had only her letters for company tonight, however. He plucked one at random.<p>

_Dear Granny,_

_How are you? Mama wrote me that you are having some renovations done to the Dower House. So, even the Dowager Countess can change? You know I am only teasing you. Have you heard from Sybil recently? How is little Robbie? I so wish I could write to her. I know we would have so much to confer over. Even if you could pass my love on to her, Tom (yes, Tom), and Robbie. But I know that's not possible. And how are we, you may ask? Well, Grandmother is at the house in Newport, of course. Though, sometimes I do like to be alone. Mrs. Larsen is, of course, always entertaining._

_We actually had quite the little scare here the other day. I've told you how Grace has started to eat real food, haven't I? So like usual, I cut up a bit of fruit for her, like I always do. It was melon. She loves melon. She put one piece in her mouth and smiled. She chewed with the few teeth she does have, the fruit dissolving and swallowed. Then she took another piece and popped it into her mouth. It wasn't too big; I know it wasn't too big. But she forgot to chew. All of a sudden she was choking, trying to suck in air. She was turning purple. I was watching her. I reached into her mouth and grabbed that damned piece of melon (it was very far back and Gracie, poor Gracie, gagged) but it was slippery, you see. It was so very slippery. For a moment, I thought, I am not going to be able to pull this out. My child is going to die._

_And I knew that if she did, I would die, too._

_I didn't feel that way when Patrick died, certainly. Or when Mr. Pamuk died either. Or when Matthew and I ended things. Or when he went to war and came back unable to walk. Or when he was going to marry Lavinia. Or even after that afternoon in the library._

_No, I never once thought, even at the worst times of my life, I will die. I will simply die._

_But I knew in the moment before I grabbed that melon and pulled it out of Gracie's mouth and the poor thing retched, that if anything ever happened to her, I would surely die._

_Sorry, this is all very morbid. But it is very scary to know that in a second, a moment, a blink really, an entire person's life can change. _

_It makes me miss you all the more. Oh, it makes me want to come home so badly! To just hug Papa and tell him everything and then for him to say, "None of that matters, Mary." I know how you will reply, you will say: then come home. But you know I cannot. It''s just not possible now. Maybe someday. But not now._

_Yours,_

_Mary_

Matthew had picked the wrong letter to read at such a time as this. Obviously. He remembered from a previous letter...what had she said? _I wanted Gracie to be unafraid to say hard things (as I often am)._

While his wife slept, he suddenly knew the hard thing that Mary, in all her worry and confusion, had been afraid or unable to say: _Can you love Gracie more than me? Because if you can't, I don't know if I can love you at all._

He stripped down, and thought about not bothering with pajamas but didn't want Mary to think he expected anything of her tonight. Of course not. So he found his night clothes. She was on her side of the bed, turned away from him. He wanted to reach for her, press his lips to her back, like he had the week before they left New York, and give her an answer to her unasked question, but in truth, he did not know the answer. He thought he knew her better, as a mother, after reading these letters, her fierceness and determination. He thought in the silence between them he could hear her say: _I love Gracie. I love this baby. More than myself. Can you love them more than me too? _After reading her letters, learning more of her story, he could understand why she would want to ask such a question. But the truth was, he had not lived her same story. He did not know how to answer and somehow she knew that.

He remembered all the questions she'd asked him, when he'd brought up having a baby. What will Gracie be to you? What if we have all sons that look like you? And later in the dark (and they couldn't have known then that already was pregnant) she had asked the thing she was afraid to say in the light: _what if our house was burning down and you could only save one of them?_

_He'd thought for a moment. They'd just made love and were wrapped around each other still. His brain wasn't even working all the way. "I don't know," he finally asked. "Who would you save?"_

_She'd pulled herself a little bit closer to him, as if she could crawl inside his skin. It made him think he'd given the right answer to an impossible question. "I don't know either." When they had that conversation, she was already pregnant._

* * *

><p>He thought she was asleep. But she wasn't. A part of her wanted to be held by him, to bridge the gap between them, but another part did not want to be touched. She was counting the ticks of the clock until morning. She was praying that she would be so stupendously sick at dawn. She couldn't wait to throw up into the toilet. How could she sleep not knowing if their baby was dead or alive? How could he?<p>

Sometime close to dawn, she finally did fall asleep. She dreamed that Richard was wrapping that ruby and diamond necklace around her neck, pulling it tighter and tighter. _"You have given me the power to destroy you,"_ he hissed at her, his eyes so angry, his grip so tight. In her dream she thought: _I have? _And then she remembered: _The children. Dear God. The children. _The rubies were cutting into her skin as he choked her with the beautiful vicious necklace. _"I want to be a good husband,"_ he continued calmly, his lips curving up in his habitual smirk, as he pulled the necklace so tight that she knew she was dying. _The children, _she thought._ Someone has to save the children._ She couldn't breathe. Then he kissed her and she knew she was going to be sick.

"Mary." It was Matthew's voice gentle but insistent, waking her, pulling her completely out of the dream to safety.

She'd vomited all over the bed.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: What? Please review, guys! Even you Faeyero's Mom! Richard is back. I know you guys have def been looking forward to that. And the baby? Poor Matthew's in the dark and Mary is just lost? What are they going to do?<em>


	20. Chapter 20

_Author's Note: I am sorry again for the late hour. But, alas, this was a difficult chapter to get through in many ways. I am still sick, of course. And the story has become much more...intense, I guess is the word. Turns out everything *is* easier in NY. Haha. But thank you to my great beta fish Faeyero, who helped a great deal with an already difficult chapter. Honestly, the first draft of the next chapter is written and it was/continues to be a very hard chapter. If you'd like an update within the day, I am going to need some radical rah rah shish boom bah. I'm not even just saying it. A lot is going down. But then after 21, I think, maybe, it will be easier. Finally, please try not to judge Mary too harshly. Let us remember chapter one. And also the box Richard sent. But you can also judge her harshly too. It's all good at this point****Sorry for the double update but I had to fix a few things_

* * *

><p>Chapter Twenty<p>

"Don't worry," Matthew said gently. "It's fine." Their beautiful silver coverlet was ruined.

"I'm not worried," she whispered, pressing one hand to her belly where she was now sure their child still lived, and the other to her throat, as if she could still feel the necklace there. _The children, _she'd said in the dream, _someone has to save the children. _"I never thought I could be so thrilled to be sick." She smiled tremulously at him for a moment. "The baby is okay."

"The baby is okay," he repeated to himself. Finally, as if coming to his senses, he did reach for her but before his fingers could touch her, she turned her face away and she became unreadable to him, like a letter on which all the ink had run. And it did seem, in the past few days that her letters were the only places he could find here.

_Please don't look at me, _she thought. _I just can't stand to be looked at._

"There's sick in my hair," she added without emotion before sliding out of bed carefully, not wanting to disturb the mess she'd made. She almost said to Matthew, in a haughty voice she hadn't used in years: _Can you please take care of this? _but she stopped herself in time. What were these impulses? God, what was it about this place that made her this way? She would have to do what she'd done in the weeks after the library, choose her words with more care, decide to be different. So she asked, as kindly as she could manage, "Do you think, perhaps, you could give that to Molesley to wash? I have to get this out of my hair or I'll be sick again."

"Of course, darling," he replied, thinking: _oh look at us, we are so polite. I absolutely hate us right now. Can't we just argue? Can't we just have this thing out? Whatever this thing is?_

Mary decided to take a shower. She'd used one the few times her grandmother invited them to the house in Newport and now stripped, glancing at the mirror, at her flat stomach, climbing into the shower, turning it on, grimacing when the spray hit her tender breasts. _Yes, I am definitely still pregnant, _she thought.

She wanted to stay under the spray long enough to forget her nightmare. So that the terror, the disgust, the fear of it would leave way and she could feel only joyful relief that her baby was okay. But it didn't work like that, she discovered; the nightmare followed her. How long would it be before it left? Before _he _left again?

_How dare he send me that necklace? How dare he write that note? You loved me in red? You mean you_ raped _me in red, you bastard. _She felt assaulted by her own thoughts, thoughts she only wanted to forget. The water was scalding and she wanted it that way. She remembered trembling on the floor, so exposed in just her corset, trembling from the vicious cold. Even now, in the hot shower, she imagined goosebumps on her skin and little shivers throughout her body. How long had she waited there before Granny and Matthew had come? Then suddenly, standing in the shower, she felt lightheaded, and had her to lean her cheek onto the glass. His beard had left a burn on her left cheek that night. How had she forgotten that? Why was she remembering it now? She had to lean her hands forward against the glass to stand upright.

It wasn't long before she heard the shower door open and Matthew step in. His hands went to her shoulders, rubbing out the anxiety there–or at least trying to. "I can't...We can't be together until I'm certain the baby is all right," she told him, side stepping away as best she could in the small shower.

He frowned. "I didn't come in here for that."

"Well you're naked and I'm naked. That's how these things usually work for us," she replied curtly, bowing her head so he could not see her face. She remembered when he found her in the small library, she would not open her eyes. If she kept her eyes closed, no one would be able to see her. Not really–they couldn't look into her eyes and _really see her._

"Mary," he said softly, one of his hands flat between her shoulder blades. "Just tell me what to do."

_Leave me alone, _she wanted to say, or better yet scream. _Leave me alone on the floor in my torn red dress, my corset ruined, in the small library. He always loved me in red._

Instead, she turned. She pressed herself against him and kissed him, as hard as she could, with as much focus as she could manage under the circumstances. She didn't want to think of Richard. She could remember, standing in parlor in New York and Matthew asking, _have you ever thought about him, anytime we've been together, anytime we've kissed or touched? _The word _no _had jumped out of her throat with relief and she'd wrapped her arms around, grateful. If they kissed and touched again, even here, in the hot shower, would it all go away again, as it had in New York?

"Mary!" he cried pushing her away as gently as possible. "I told you I didn't come in here for that."

_I want to start a fight with you, _she realized. _Maybe then I won't think of the rest of it._

He pulled her back towards him, since she'd backed herself completely against the wall of the shower and out of the rather hot spray. He realized the water on her face wasn't from the shower but from tears. He took her in his arms, for a second there was tension in her arms, as if she was considering fighting him, but then she wrapped her arms around him, trembling. He held her loosely, like he had that second day in New York. "I love you," he spoke into her ear so he could be sure she heard him. "Please. What's changed? I want to help."

"How?" she cried, pulling away from him, turning off the shower, and beginning to shake. She took a deep breath. "I have to be still," she whispered. _If I am still and cool and cold, then no one will know what I am feeling or thinking. If I am the cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley, I will be safe._

He misinterpreted her words. "Come here. Let's get you back to bed. Molesley already has another blanket and we'll bundle you right up."

Briefly, she touched his face. It was the first kindness she'd shown him all morning. She felt completely out of sorts, and wondered if she was going mad. _I hate you, Richard, _she thought, _I loathe you._ _I despise you. I wish you were dead._

Finally she spoke to Matthew. She had to give him something. "I don't deserve you," she murmured and meant it literally. _I am damaged goods, didn't you know?_

The way she said it scared him.

He tucked her in as promised and then checked on Gracie who was awake. He changed her nappy but left her pajamas on. "Let's go have a cuddle with Mama. She needs a good cuddle with her girl."

"Baby?" she asked hopefully with the innocence of a child.

He kissed her lips, the lips that were still small but had been infinitely smaller in the photograph he'd seen yesterday. "I love you, darling. I love you so much."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Lalou, Papa!" She laughed when he picked her up and put her on his shoulders, her hands clinging to his hair for balance, his own arms awkwardly raised to hold her up too, just in case. "Mama!" she demanded as they walked into the room, her adorable bare feet hanging over his shoulders.

Mary found herself smiling, trying to sound cheerful. "But where is Gracie? Isn't she awake? Where has Gracie Girl gone?"

Grace let go of Matthew's hair with one hand. "Me!" she yelled.

"Oh!" Mary exaggerated. "But you're so tall! You're like a giraffe!"

Gracie leaned forward (Mary held her breath, even knowing that Matthew had a firm grip on the baby) to see Matthew's face. "'affe?" she asked.

"She wants to know what sound a giraffe..." Mary began to inform him, as if this were the first day he held Gracie, and been asked the sound of an animal. _Don't you remember? I quacked like a duck the first night I met her. And you were a monkey. How could you forget that?_

He shot her an exasperated look. Gently, because the baby was in the room, he said, "I know what she's asking." Finally, he blew out his cheeks and exaggerated chewing on something, making as much noise with his mouth as he could manage because he could not think of another sound a giraffe could make. Grace let go of his hair to clap, "Yay! Papa, lalou!"

"Matthew, make sure you're holding..."

"I have her," he repeated in that same tone, the one that said: _if Gracie wasn't here right now, we would be arguing because I would be angry with you because you are treating me unfairly for no reason that I can think of._

_Well, _Matthew thought, _we both wondered what would happen when we came back to Downton and it appears we've taken two steps back in the trust department. _"We've come for a cuddle."

"Oh, I love to cuddle with my baby," Mary cheered, but there was a blankness to her eyes, like a doll's. _The children, the children._

Tenderly, he set Grace down on the bed and she crawled to her mother. "Me?" she pointed to herself. "Baby." Then she put her hand to her mother's belly. "You," she said, not to Mary but to Mary's stomach, "You. Baby." Mary teared up. Surely, she must still be pregnant if these things were still making her cry. Gracie began to rub her mama's stomach softly, like she had done to Sybil's. "Baby. Baby. Baby," she sang, her voice sweet and quiet, as if she was singing for the benefit of what lay beneath Mary's skin alone.

"You are going to be a terrific big sister," Mary whispered. "Much better than I was."

Mary looked over at Matthew, quite a distance away from them. She could tell he didn't know if he was wanted. She reached a hand out to him, touching his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she mouthed, "so sorry." There was more for her to say but not in front of Grace.

"Papa," Gracie chirped, like a little bird. She put her hand to his belly and asked, "Baby?"

"No, darling," he replied, leaning forward to kiss her forehead and laugh. Mary smiled, but there was something off about it, something he did not recognize in the curve of her lips, even as she ran her hand down Grace's hair.

As Mary had in New York, he touched his finger to her nose and said, "Baby." Then put his hand to to Mary's stomach and added, "Baby." Mary grabbed it before he could remove it and held it there. She laced their fingers together while she looked at him. _I'm trying, _she tried to communicate through the grip, _Not very well. But I am trying. And I don't know how to tell you what's wrong._

He held her hand running his free one through Gracie's curls. "Tell Mama the new word you can say."

"A new word?" Mary replied, enchanted. This, this was what she wanted. To be with Matthew in their bed with their children. She had no idea that months before, when he'd innocently climbed into bed to take a nap with them, Matthew had virtually the same thought.

_Richard has no business in this bed or our life, _she promised herself.

"Yes," Gracie nodded proudly. She crossed her eyes a little, as if she could watch her own mouth. This talking business was hard work. "Syb. Syb." She grunted a little. She knew she could do it. "Syb-ill. Syb-ill."

"Oh my!" Mary cried some more then. She could not help herself. "You are so smart. So very smart. Just like your papa." She squeezed his hand. "I wonder if she'll have an English accent. Or if she'll sound like her Grandmama."

"What other word did we learn?" Matthew asked, beaming at the little girl. She looked at him and he nodded encouragingly. This one was harder.

"Tsh," she started, her little tongue between her teeth. Then frowned, frustrated.

"You can do it," Matthew coaxed. "Go ahead, Gracie."

"Tsh," she tried again, screwing her face up comically. "Tsh-om. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Syb-il. Baby."

Mary let go of her husband's hand so they could both clap. "However did you learn those new words so quickly?"

"We were talking about everyone that she met yesterday instead of making animal sounds. She was obsessed with Sybil's belly." He shared a smile with Mary. "Mother said she's at that age where they begin to pick up things more quickly. She'll be speaking in whole sentences soon," Matthew offered.

"I never thought I'd say this but I can't wait to pick your mother's brain about child development and see if she knows of any good books." Mary added as if she were considering what books to check out from the library, which seemed so strange when they were lying together, a baby between them.

"Books that claim labor will be like a bowel movement?" he asked, his face serious.

They laughed together. "Watch out. Her next words could be bowel movement." Just like that, they were back on even footing again, or so it appeared. She sighed.

"Dr. Clarkson should be coming soon. I thought I might take Grace exploring, let her run around a bit," Matthew offered. _I will keep her away from all of this if you promise to tell me everything afterwards._

"That sounds wonderful," Mary said to the both of them, acknowledging the compromise with her eyes. "Save the horses for all of us though, all right?"

"What does a horsey say?" Matthew asked.

"Nay!" Grace enthused, though she was busy wrapping her mother's hair around her finger.

Mary began to cry again. "What's wrong?" Matthew wanted to know.

She shook her head. "It's just...she's growing up. She's so smart and grown up. And I'm pregnant. And these," she mouthed her next word, "_damned_ hormones. Everything makes me cry. If I think about her curly hair for too long, I'll start to cry. If I look at the shell of her baby ear, so intricate, I could weep. It's silly."

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips. "It's all right. I'll get you some tea and dry toast and more water before we go. All right?"

"Yes," she murmured, touching the wedding band he wore. _Thank you. _"Could you also call Granny? Ask her to visit me while you two are out exploring?"

* * *

><p>Granny came within the hour with Doctor Clarkson, coincidentally, following at her heels. "Tell him he can wait, Isobel," Violet demanded and went to her granddaughter.<p>

"Oh, Granny," Mary said as soon as she saw her and Violet took her into her arms. For every intimate letter Mary had written (and Matthew read), Violet had replied in an equally intimate letter back (which Matthew would never be allowed to read). They finally knew one another as _women._

"I hear you had a fall," she said once she was seated. "What is your husband's obsession with these swivel chairs?" she muttered.

Mary stifled a smile. _Oh, Granny, if you only knew._

"Granny," she took Violet's papery hand. "I'm pregnant."

"I knew it!" she crowed and would have done a jig if her legs would have allowed it. "I just knew it. So that's what all the fuss is about; it was more than a fall, then."

"Yes, I'm afraid we made it very dramatic." For a moment, Mary considered not telling her Granny about the package. They could talk about the baby. They could talk about anything

"I completely understand. Men are such infants when it comes to anything _baby _related. And when can I expect to meet my next great grandchild?" Violet asked, leaning forward with excitement and also sly curiosity.

"If the doctor in New York is right then I'm six weeks. But," she wet her lips, "I think he was wrong. I think I'm farther along then that."

"Listen, dear," Violet patted her hand. "If you and Matthew had relations before you were married, well then that's the way it happened...It can't be undone...Why I once let your grandfather, before he was your grandfather, leave a mark on my neck." She smiled fondly. "It did feel delicious. But not so delicious when my mother saw it," she chortled. "She watched us like a hawk after that, to be sure."

"I think you told me that story in one of your letters, Granny," Mary replied grinning. "I think you also included a lot more details than that."

"One usually finds things easier to say on paper," Violet sniffed.

"We didn't..." Mary said. "I mean, we kissed, of course." _A massive understatement. _Here they were, talking as women. "But not anything to make a baby, until our wedding night. I have to ask Clarkson, but that would make me eight weeks instead of six. Which isn't that big of a difference, really," she added.

"Well I am very proud of you! For waiting!" Violet enthused. "_That _wedding night was ten years in coming! I have to confess if ai were you, I would have thrown up my skirts long ago. Ten years!"

"Granny," Mary sobered. "Do you think you could call Isobel up here?" Granny raised an eyebrow at her granddaughter (where did everyone think Mary learned that trick from?) but did as she asked,

"Isobel," Mary smiled wanly. "Do you think you could get that jewelry box and the card? Please." Isobel, like Violet, did as she asked and set it on the bed near Mary.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?" Isobel wondered, even though she'd been promised an explanation.

Mary looked up at her grandmother, who nodded just slightly. "No, you can stay. You have been so...so much more than I ever expected." She paused. She wondered how much to tell. "In January of 1920, after I ended our engagement, Sir Richard...violated me."

Isobel climbed on top of the bed, with no thought as to her skirt or stockings. She took Mary's hand. She pursed her lips and then flattened them out again in distaste, not at Mary, but that they even had to have this conversation at all, at what had been done to her. "He raped you?"

"Really, Isobel!" Violet said sharply. "Were you this insensitive with your patients?"

Mary nodded and now the tears began to fall. Oh, how she hated to talk about it. If she didn't talk about it or think about it then she didn't have to cry.

"Oh my dear," Isobel crooned. She rubbed Mary's back. "I am so sorry. I know those words are meaningless in this case but I am so sorry that he did that to you. And I hope, whoever you've told," she looked up at Violet for confirmation, "has made it clear, crystal clear, that it was not your fault in any way, shape, or form, and that you did not deserve to be treated that way, and that no man, let alone a gentleman would ever force a woman!" Isobel lectured, both gently and firmly at the same time. To be honest, the normalcy of Isobel on a tirade calmed Mary a little.

But then, quite suddenly and quite violently, Mary simply bent at the waist and began to sob. She could not catch her breath. Both Isobel and Violet rubbed her back. _What was happening to her? God. _She felt as if she were reliving it all. She had not expected the memories to be so strong, even after Richard's most recent trick. Finally, she leaned back, spent.

"But darling, why are we talking of all this now? I am glad to bring Isobel into our confidence, and I believe she can only be of help in your complete recovery..." Mary wanted to stop Granny and scream _I am completely recovered_ but the lie stuck in her throat. "But why now?"

"Because of this," Isobel stated and handed the box and the note to Violet who read the card, opened the box, and glared at the offensive necklace.

Then she stood with a great deal of dignity, took her walking stick in her hand and began to whack it against the desk as hard as her strength would allow. Over and over and over again, she hit that desk. Her mouth drawn, her eyes angry. When she was finished, she sat back down and dabbed at her throat where some sweat had gathered. "Excuse me," she said demurely. "Where did he send it?"

"Here," Mary whispered. "It was addressed to me. I don't know how he knows I'm even in the country. I don't know how he knows that Matthew and I are married. When I saw it, I fainted." She smiled. "All those balls with girls swooning, their corsets too tight, and I never did. It was a badge of honor."

"You haven't mentioned the baby since the start of this conversation. Can I assume that everything is as it should be?" Violet asked.

"I think so. But we won't know for sure for weeks yet," Mary whispered.

Violet considered the situation for a moment, then rapped her stick descisvely on the floor. "I'll go to London tomorrow," she announced.

"What? Why?" Isobel cried.

"I have an interest in newspapers," Violet stated, her lips turning down as if she'd taken a bite out of a lemon. "By the way, apologize to Matthew for me about his desk."

"I'm coming with you," Isobel demanded.

For a moment, Violet looked like she would not allow it. But then she turned her head, looked Isobel up and down. "Yes, I think you should. We are more fearsome together, I think."

"No one is going to London!" Mary reasoned loudly from the bed. "Absolutely not."

"Darling," Violet walked over to her and touched her cheek. "Once, long ago, Matthew devised ways to take revenge on Sir Richard and I cautioned him not to. I said that if we attacked Sir Richard, Sir Richard would only attack you. Well I was wrong." The statement tasted very bitter in her mouth. "He has attacked without any provocation, years after the original event took place. He must be warned that to do so again would end very poorly for him." She paused and looked at Isobel. "I always loved you in red, my foot! I'll show him red. I'll wear every piece of red clothing I own and that awful gaudy necklace too when I confront him. Come, Isobel," she added. "We must make plans."

Mary closed her eyes. "This is a dream. I am dreaming." But then she had to open her eyes to protect her family. "Don't you see? It isn't about me. It's about Matthew. It's always been about Matthew. He was always jealous of him and before he...before he...he accused me of being with Matthew...in that way," she stuttered through the embarrassing story. "He wants Matthew to do something stupid, something to get him in trouble."

"No," Violet stated. "I couldn't disagree with you more."

"Granny..."

"No, no," Violet said in that way of hers, raising her hand to quiet Mary. "I have kept my peace on the subject for many years. That man wanted complete control over you from the moment he met you. He never got it; you never gave it to him. So he took it. Any damage to Matthew is just a bonus, really. It's you he'd like to break."

Mary closed her eyes and tried not to remember: _You have given me the power to destroy you. _How happy he'd been when she came to him with the Pamuk story, how he'd considered it his trump card. Yet, even with the story in his hand, she still would not have him. _Do not cross me. Do you understand?_

"I'm afraid I agree with your grandmother," Isobel stated calmly. "We must make it painfully clear to Sir Richard that you do not stand alone. And he's always been particularly afraid of Violet, I believe."

"As he should be," Violet said proudly. "Have I not already proven this stick has other uses than just helping me walk?"

It was so absurd, Mary had to giggle.

"Your granny is a fearsome thing to behold," Isobel commented. "Believe me, I know. But in all seriousness, I believe you must tell Matthew of this."

"I agree," Violet concurred.

"Do you know what he would do?" Mary cried, holding her hands to her chest. "He would be out of his mind."

"Yes, I know what he would do. He is my son," Isobel said gently. "But he would remember that he is a husband and a father and however much he would like to eviscerate Sir Richard, he has responsibilities." She paused. "And he would be there for you, Mary."

"When he raped me, I was wearing red," Mary spoke almost conversationally. "That's why he wrote that, you know. He knows exactly what he did. He wanted to hurt me then and now."

"He will never touch you again, Mary. Tomorrow, we will go to London. It gives us more time to plan our attack. But please tell Matthew. I can hear it in your voice. This has been very difficult for you, coming back, receiving that note," Isobel sighed. "We will go to London. You will not worry."

Mary thought of the letter she'd found on Matthew's desk. _A duty borne of love...Why is that men can never understand that duty and love are not two but one?_

"All right and I will tell Matthew once you are back and the matter is more...settled," Mary agreed, feeling helpless and bedridden. "Please send up Dr. Clarkson up when you see him."

* * *

><p>Matthew was exhausted by the end of a day spent as Grace's solitary caregiver. His mother had been strangely absent, leaving with Violet, and all Gracie wanted to do was run in the grass and try to catch every butterfly she saw. She hadn't taken a nap either, too many new surroundings, too many things to do. Downton was a world away from New York. Yet another example of Mary's strength, he thought as he entered their room. He was sure she would have handled today like a pro, not nearly exhausted as he felt.<p>

But the baby inside her was exhausting her. She was wrapped in a cocoon of a blanket, sound asleep. _Convenient, _ he thought bitterly, _let's go another day without really talking._

He went to his desk to read another letter. He didn't have a good reason as to why he read them when it hurt so much at the same time. But he felt, somewhat absurdly, as if somehow, by reading them, he could absorb some of the hurt Mary had been feeling when she wrote them, that somehow he could understand her better, that one day he would be able to answer her question: _can you love the children more than me?_ He picked one at random, momentarily stunned by the series of new dents on the corner of the desk he'd had since University.

"What are you reading?" she whispered in the dark. She'd turned over and her dark hair was falling over the white pillowcase. He wondered if she knew how lovely she looked upon waking, without even trying, her voice hoarse, her eyes fuzzy. However difficult their marriage might be, he must remember that he might never have seen moments like this if not for meeting her that day in New York."

"One of your letters."

"Clarkson came by today," she murmured, her voice still full of sleep. "I haven't had any spotting which is very good. And I went over some dates and things with him. I've just had this feeling that I'm farther along than the Doctor in New York said."

"What feelings? What things?" he asked immediately.

She rolled her eyes but in a lovable way. "It has to do with _cycles _and just things my body is telling me."

"What things?" he demanded again.

"Well I realized, after the fall, that I never," she blushed, "my monthly...didn't come in April or May...I don't keep track of it very well. I haven't had to until...we..."

"I...yes," he nodded so adorably, his ears turning pink. "So, what...things?" It was endearing really, how he wanted to know everything and how hard he was trying not to be embarrassed by what he learned.

"Well with Grace, it wasn't as if I was sick the day after. It took a few weeks for that to start. Dr. Clarkson concurred with that and said that's typical as well. The first four weeks are all internal happenings. There wouldn't be symptoms for a month really."

He leaned forward in his chair, his hands on his knees. "So what does this mean?"

"It means, I think that this baby was conceived on our wedding night or the day after."

"Mary," he smirked. "Really? I mean, is that likely?"

She laughed at him (_oh, men)_ holding her belly in a way that he'd come to love, as if she already knew the baby lying inside of her. "Matthew, we were together four times that night. It's completely possible. And the day after, we were together three times so somewhere in those two days..."

"We made a baby." He grin was so big she thought his cheeks must hurt. He was just so proud of them (_oh men). _ "So what does this mean?"

He'd asked her that a hundred times already but he was just so cute about it. "It means I'm about eight weeks pregnant instead of six. Which just means that that the baby will come a bit earlier and that I will start to get fat sooner rather than later." She lay back and sighed.

"How soon?" he asked with a wink.

"Not soon enough for you, apparently," she let out a breath of a laugh. "But too soon for me." She stuck her chin on her first. "Which letter are you reading?" she asked him.

"I picked it randomly. I haven't started it. What happened to my desk?"

"Granny happened. She said to apologize. Her stick...It's complicated. Can I tell you tomorrow?" Mary asked and he nodded, looking at her strangely. "Why don't you bring that letter over here and we can read it together?" she asked shyly.

He closed his eyes: _Thank God, you've given me my wife back. _He smiled, the lamp illuminating the piece of paper for him to read. Mary crawled to him, like a caterpillar in the blanket and laid her head in his lap.

"Don't mind me, if I cry," she murmured. "It's your son or daughter that's to blame." He ran a hand through her hair, brushing it away from her face, and she smiled.

_Dear Granny,_

_You wrote to tell me you "thought" Matthew was courting someone, that there was a "twinkle" in his eye, you hadn't seen in quite some time, that you'd caught him "daydreaming" with a "passionate look in his eye." Granny, I hope you know that the only reason I am quoting you is because I hope, upon reflection, you realize that you are being ridiculous._

_Oh, Granny. Your veiled (and I use that term very loosely) attempts to urge me to contact him will not work. I am determined in this. (And besides, since when have you made a study of Matthew?) (Furthermore, since when have you been his champion?)_

_How many times have I written you, explaining this? I love you but I have answered the same questions time and time again._

_I've told you of the walks Grace and I like to take through the park. Well, for several days, we crossed paths with the same man. He read his newspaper and he had a spotted dog that sat obediently beside him. His hair was dark, a little gray at the temples and from what I could see, his eyes were also gray. I know what it feels like to have a man's eye follow me when I walk across a dining room. It feels exactly the same way when a man's eye follows me along a path in Central Park. _

_I wondered about it. I obviously had a baby, no ring on my finger. For a moment, I was angry. Did he think I was easy somehow? But that was back in the days when I wore black all the time, as if I didn't have a right to colors anymore. They were my old clothes, very fine. I realized he thought I was a well to do widow. I assumed he felt sorry for me. _

_But on the third day, he asked if I would like to rest on the bench beside him. (It's different here in New York; and these are different times. Has the new phenomenon of "dating" reached your scandalized ears yet?")_

_The handsome man said to me, "Your baby is beautiful." The way he said it made it clear that it was not just compassion over my "widowhood" that interested him._

_I replied, "So is your dog." He had a very appealing laugh, the kind of laugh that makes everyone else around a table laugh too. There was a dimple on his right cheek but not his left._

_We talked of the weather, the park, of New York. He asked about my accent. He was born in New York, was running his father's business. He was very well to do; I could tell by his clothes, by the fact he could walk his dog and read his paper at leisure. _

_Finally, Gracie began to fuss and I stood. He stood as well (he had very nice manners). "I hope to see you again, Lady Mary. Perhaps even tomorrow?" _

_But do you know, for one week, I never walked on that path, and the next week either. When I finally went back, I was grateful he and his beautiful dog were not there. _

_I don't know how to be with men anymore, Granny. I don't know how to talk to them or flirt or give an elegant quip that has their head turning my way. I don't know how to let them take my hand and still feel the heat through my glove. I don't know how to look shy, demurely away when given a compliment. I used to know how to do all those things perfectly. I was very good at it. After nearly three fiancés, I should think so! _

_I meant that to be a joke but when I read it again, it wasn't very funny._

_I know how to take care of my daughter. I know how to discern her cries–when she's hungry, when she's wet, when she is overtired, when she longs for my arms. I know what silly faces to make in order for her to giggle. I know the best spots to tickle her so she laughs and laughs. I know how many steps the nursery is from my room because I cross it every night. I know how to rock a child to sleep and lay her in a crib and give her a kiss all without waking her. That's what I know how to do now._

_You wanted to know my feelings for Matthew. You've asked in letter after letter and I've avoided the question._

_I've loved him for a long time. It's just become this thing, like a beauty mark you notice one day that never goes away. Of course, it is **more** than a beauty mark but I **must **make my love for him like a beauty mark. I have a daughter to care for. _

_And I can hear you now, across the ocean, warning me, "And if he should marry this _piece _that put the twinkle in his eye?" My answer is that if...no, when Matthew marries I will wish him well and go on loving him, as I always have, as I always will. If he marries her, it would be no different than the last nine years. Loving him and being without him. I've gotten good at that._

_I can't write him, as you suggested. I wouldn't know what to say. "Dear Matthew, I love you. Do you think you could forget that day in the library? And also that part where you believe us cursed? By the way, I have a baby. Love, Mary." I'm not trying to avoid your entreaties; that is the honest truth. I don't think so Granny. I don't even know what to say to a man with a spotted dog, let alone Matthew. It's preposterous to even consider._

_Please don't write to me of him again. It hurts. It makes him more than a beauty mark. He must remain small, you see. _

_All our love,_

_Mary and Gracie_

It was so strange to hear Matthew's voice read her words, to hear him hesitate over his own name, to hear the brokenness in his tone. "All the other letters..." he said after a moment, "have been about Gracie."

"Most of them are." She was weeping, he could feel his shirt slowly dampen. "Just a handful that even mention you, mostly telling her to leave me alone about it. And if I remember correctly this is the only one _about _you. She listened to me and never asked me to contact you again."

She lifted her head and looked him in the eye. "When you saw me in the park, I wanted you to go. I wanted to be away from you so badly. I needed you to be small."

He smiled a little, but his eyes were sad. "I might have sensed that, a little bit, but I am a man and we cannot be depended upon to interpret the signs women send us." He paused, caressing her back. "But Mary, in the last few days, sometimes...it has felt like that, as if you want me to go, as if you want to be away from me so very badly, as if you want to make me small again."

She closed her eyes and laid her head on his chest. "I could blame the capriciousness of pregnancy," she sighed.

His hand moved languidly up and down her back. "You could do that. Or you could be honest."

"It's hard for me to be honest, to say hard things. Why are you smiling?"

"I read that in one of your letters to Violet, the reason you named Grace after her, that you wanted her to be unafraid to say hard things, and as an aside you added, _as I often am_."

"I am," she whispered. "I always am."

"Even before?" he asked, his eyes so blue and serious. "When you were Lady Mary and you told me _I wouldn't want to push in _or when you told the story of Andromeda at dinner? Those things would be very hard for some to say_._"

"Those things were...are...different. Those are words that protect or attack. I'm good at those." She closed her eyes, placed her hand against his heart. "That's not what I meant when I said I didn't want her to be afraid to say hard things. I meant that I didn't want her to be afraid to say vulnerable things, things that left her open, words that risked everything."

She didn't know if she was explaining it correctly so she lifted her head again and looked him in the eye. "I didn't want her to grow up to be a woman, who could stand across from the man she loved at a stupid garden party, and be too afraid to tell him that she did love him. I didn't want her to be a woman who watched the man she loved become engaged to someone else, a woman who could not go to him and tell him that she loved him, for fear of rejection. I didn't want her to ever have to make the man she loved small just so she could go on about her life. I didn't want _that _for her."

"Oh, Mary," he murmured. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, to her temple, her closed eyelid, her nose; he caught a tear on his lips.

"I _have_ wanted you to go; I _have _wanted to be away from you very badly," she whispered. "I _have _tried to make you small."

"Why?" he asked, kissing her eyelids again, the corner of her mouth, her chin, her ear lobe. "Say the hard thing."

In a rush, in a single breath, she did say it. "In New York, the words were so easy for me, not at first but once we were married and we would by lying together, I love you. I love you. I could have said them a hundred times. But it's so hard loving you here because we were never together here. Here, we've always been apart. I forget to say I love you here. I forget to love you well here. There are so many memories and not many good ones. And then this worrying about this baby. My father. Gracie transitioning to this new place with so many new people. I had a dream...with _him_ in it. And I just keep thinking, I need to be alone. If I am alone, then I won't break apart."

"What happens when you break apart?" he asked, briefly, ever so softly, kissing her lips.

"I don't know," she said. "I've never done it before." She wet her lips. "But tomorrow night, once Gracie is asleep. I would like to sit like this with you and talk. And say another hard thing."

"What hard thing?"

"Please," she begged. She was still crying. "It has been such a long day and I have already told you_ some _hard things. Can't it wait? Can't you trust me with it until then?"

"Tomorrow night," he replied. He kissed her, in that aching way, so that she had to put her hands to his cheeks to stay balanced.

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><p><em>Author's Note: So yes. There it was. I don't have much to say. Except a few of you have said, I've thought about getting an account so I can get updates. You should do it. Because you know what else? And some people can definitely attest to this...I write back to reviews and sometimes even include some little hints or spoilers and answer their questions. I'm wild like that.<em>


	21. Chapter 21

_Author's Note: First, major props to **GE **for helping me with this chapter. She has been helping me with some historical research on a particular topic which I cannot share because it could give things away...Although a few of you know because I really do give away minor hints when I respond to reviewers. There should also be another update tomorrow as well. Yay! And it's a little bit lighter. Somewhat. Thanks for everything, guys! ***OK, I know you're getting two updates on this chapter but I just had to add that **GE **and I bantering back and forth about Dr. Clarkson totally inspired this scene and the following rabbit holes. Also, if you are lucky, (and review) there might be TWO updates today...We shall see!_

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><p>Chapter Twenty One<p>

Violet purposely wore black, her best, most expensive frock.

She also purposely laid the hideous ruby and diamond encrusted, three tiered monstrosity around her neck. It was heavy, which did not surprise her. Sir Richard had always been keen on weighing Mary down.

She already knew that she would not kneel before him, figuratively or literally, and beg on Mary's behalf. She would relay the situation, as she saw it, and the consequences of any continued actions, as she saw them, without emotion or desperation. She was not emotional or desperate. She was sure. She was determined.

She would keep her chin level, eyes cold. She wasn't above using the dignity of her age, the coldness of it, the way she could hold herself as still as a statue without blinking and deliver verbal death blows without moving a muscle, if necessary. But she did not wait for Sir Richard as Mary did that day, when she implored him to secure her Pamuk secret, Violet and Isobel barged in without an appointment.

"Never underestimate the value of a surprise attack," Violet quoted on the ride through London.

* * *

><p>The day before Violet has insisted Isobel come to her house "to talk things over." But Violet immediately pushed clothes on her, calling her ladies maid, "The dress, the silk, with the lace, I wore it the end of last summer..oh, and the shoes, the patent leather..." until a mountain of beautiful black frocks and accessories lay atop Violet's bed.<p>

"I have my own clothes," Isobel complained.

"You must wear black," Violet insisted.

"Well I have black clothes too." Isobel couldn't help but roll her eyes. Violet was acting as if this was a play with costumes and finally Isobel said as much.

"No," Violet reasoned. "This is not a play. This is a war. The look is important. I know you have black clothes but I need you to look expensive, not middle class."

"Upper middle class," Isobel corrected automatically.

It was Violet's turn to roll her eyes. "Excuse me, upper middle class. But when we see Sir Richard we must look the part. I will wear the necklace and you will wear my late mother-in-law's ostentatious ruby earrings. They're gigantic. Sir Richard will adore them."

"But why does it matter what we wear?" Isobel asked, in that matter of fact tone of hers. "We know what we must do it. We need to know what we will say."

"No, no, no." Violet shook her hand. "You do not understand. You are considering this a direct attack and it is not. I have known men like Sir Richard. He has his money; he has his mansions; he has his newspapers. But the one thing he wants, he can never, ever have."

Violet caught Isobel's attention. She leaned forward. "Mary?"

Violet shook her head impatiently at her pupil. "No, not Mary! It was never about Mary! He wants to be an aristocrat and it is not a club that accepts new members."

She paused, running over in her mind some way for Isobel, this _upper_ middle class woman, to understand. "Oh for heaven's sake, haven't you ever read Pride and Prejudice, when the nasty aunt visits Elizabeth, berating her, and Elizabeth says but _I am a gentleman's daughter_ and the aunt says nastily, _well who is your mother and who is your father and who were their parents?"_

"I seem to...recall that, yes," Isobel murmured. Who knew that Violet read novels?

"Well that is exactly what Sir Richard hears in his own head every time he attends a party or a ball or visits an estate. He's welcomed because he's rich. But he knows everyone is thinking..."

"Who is your mother, who is your father," Isobel recited, catching on. She nodded her head, like a student who'd just done particularly well on an exam. "Or worse... that no one is thinking of him at all." She felt strangely pleased when Violet nodded. "But what does that have to do with us and the way we are dressed?"

Violet waved her hand. "You forget, Isobel. He's a man. It's the illusion that matters. That's why he wanted to marry _Lady Mary. _But even then, with her hand on his arm, he was still not be welcomed into the club. His own fiancé did not think he belonged there. He embarrassed her and she made that painfully clear. It's one of the many reasons he hates her."

"Yes, I see that!" Isobel stated with vexation. "I see that you are the Dowager Countess. But who am I?"

"You," Violet said quite primly. "Are the future Earl of Grantham's mother. You are the grandmother of the future Earl's children. The future Earl whom he always detested. We'll make up a title for you. The stupid man could never learn them anyway," she sniffed, as if he was there in person to insult. "Trust me when we walk in, in these fine frocks, and our fine red," she spat the word, "jewels. We already have the upper hand. We have already beaten him because he can never be us. Ever. No matter what."

"I must say," Isobel spoke after a moment of glancing at the mountain of black silk, chiffon, and lace, "you have put a lifetime of thought into this."

Violet tilted her head and quite nearly gave Isobel a friendly look. "If you knew my mother-in-law, you would have a lifetime of experience gaining the upper hand as well."

* * *

><p>The next day, when they walked into the offices, both Isobel and Violet, never looked better. "But you don't have an appointment..." Sir Richard's secretary began to say. She stopped in the middle of her sentence, silenced by one sharp glance from Violet.<p>

Then, abruptly Violet turned her head in the other direction and Isobel followed her lead, the two of them, calmly opening the door to Sir Richard's private sanctum, together, as a unit.

For the most part, he looked the same, sharply dressed, his hair coiffed to hide its thinness. Perhaps there were a few more lines around his face, it was hard to tell because his mouth dropped open upon seeing his visitors. Isobel observation was true; Sir Richard had always been a little more than afraid of Lady Mary's granny. Perhaps he'd expected Mary to come see him, or Matthew. But not Violet and certainly not Isobel.

"Oh Sir Richard," Violet said, both disdain and pity for him crystalizing every word. "I would say that it's nice to see you, but let's be honest from the beginning of our meeting. We never really liked each other, did we?"

"Dowager Countess, Mrs. Crawley," he replied, standing briefly, behind his desk, his lips curling up the way they always did, so one could never tell if he was smiling or smirking. "To what do I owe..."

"I believe you should refer to me as the Most Honorable Lady Crawley," Isobel interrupted as she'd been instructed with as much pomp and circumstance as she could muster. Violet had assured her that Sir Richard would take her at her word as long as she appeared believable.

"You've come up in the world then?" He steepled his hands together and sat back in his chair as if nothing else, he was prepared to be entertained. "Weren't you a nurse?"

"My son is the future Earl of Grantham, my daughter-in-law is Lady Mary, the future Countess of Grantham. I haven't come up in the world at all, you see. It's my son's right by blood," Isobel again repeated her lines, trying to imitate Violet's stillness, her coolness. She could hear Violet in her head: _we must throw him off his game immediately. All the focus must be on you at first._

"Only after the current Earl fathered no sons and his heirs died on the Titanic." Sir Richard smiled, his lips curving upwards the way some men's mustaches do. He'd certainly never been afraid to speak his mind. "Rights by blood but fourth in line nonetheless."

"Your father sired a son. What are you in line to become, Sir Richard?" Violet finally spoke, her voice the same it would be over polite dinner conversation. "What relatives do you have that might bring you up in the world? Who has to die for you to be anyone worth mentioning?"

He stopped smiling. His lips uncurled. Violet had warned Isobel that after the first shot, things might (would) get nasty.

"Do you like my necklace?" Violet inquired innocently after he did not reply to her question.

Sir Richard took a moment to reply. "I like it very much. I must have liked it, since I bought it."

"That is one thing I could count on you for: honesty," Violet complimented kindly. But her voice sounded bored when she continued. "But I never could count on your taste level. This necklace is ostentatious, vulgar, and reeking of your own bitterness. Poor Cousin Isobel had to smell your desperation the whole drive here."

"Don't worry," Isobel improvised. "We opened a window."

"But we could still hear the necklace, couldn't we, Cousin?" Violet continued. "How could we ignore the way it screamed _Look at me. I'm important. I'm rich. I'm powerful."_

"Don't forget: _I'm bitter._" For a moment, Isobel began to enjoy herself, but then she remembered why they had come. "I did hear it screaming all those things. But the funny thing is" she tilted her head, as if she were about to give the punchline to a joke, "it never said: _I am somebody. I was bought by somebody who matters."_

"Ladies," Sir Richard stood. "If you think I have time for this, you're wrong."

"Oh sit down, Sir Richard. Let's be honest with one another. Or are you afraid of two old ladies?" Violet violet baited him. _Let him think us weak before we go in for the kill, _she thought gleefully while her face remained a regal mask. "Aren't you going to congratulate us on the marriage we have all been waiting for? The one we hoped and prayed would take place for so long. Even when things seemed impossible, even when she was engaged to you, we still held on to hope...I know you never quite got the hang of our types of manners but still you should offer congratulations to the family..." Her voice petered out meaningfully.

"I already sent my congratulations to Lady Mary," he smiled again, flicking his lips up. The gesture began to remind Violet of a snake's tongue, hissing out. "Aren't you going to congratulate me on my recent wedding?"

"To who? A slatern?" Violet replied sweetly. "Or is it the carpenter's daughter?"

"Her name is Marianne Carlisle and we are very happy. Thank you." He stated though he jerked his shoulders as if his suit was uncomfortable, two tight between his shoulders.

"No title there either," Violet muttered out of the corner of her mouth for Isobel's benefit and of course, loud enough for Sir Richard to hear. "Poor dear has no idea what she's gotten herself into."

"I think you would like her, truly. You can meet her for yourself. After all, we will be neighbors." His smile grew, that obnoxious, gleeful snake mouth. Isobel truly began to believe that a layer of slime had to be oozing out of his pores beneath his expensive suit. "We're reopening Haxby Park."

_Stay cool, stay cold,_ Violet instructed herself, and willed Isobel to do the same. "Oh? I thought you sold."

"Your son wrote to me, imploring me to sell, many times over the years, for the good of the county," he recounted, grinning that sly little grin, again with his steepled fingers.

"And your reply?" Violet asked.

"I told him, _Have Mary come see me and I'll consider it._" He paused. "I never did hear back from him after that...I heard she fled the country."

Violet stood with her stick, she took careful steps towards his desk. Isobel felt out of her element and could only mimic the expert, Violet, and do the same.

"Stand up," Violet commanded in a voice as hard as iron. "Be a man for once in your pathetic life." He did as she asked, but he was humoring her, shrugging his shoulders, casually putting his hands in his pockets. "I know what you did. If you ever try to contact her in any way again, or Matthew, or their children, or any of us..."

"What, your Ladyship?" he asked. "Will you slap me on my wrists?" He held them out to her and was quite surprised when she did actually knock them, quite brutally aside with her stick.

"I'll do worse than that. I can close every door in London to you with a few telephone calls. I can give your competitor's such salacious gossip that your paper would be left, alone in the newspaper stands or worse, used as paper to wipe some less savory acts of hygiene ."

"And I could print the story of Mary and Pamuk," he grinned, though his wrists did ache quite a lot.

"My, my," Violet chortled. "You are an idiot. I am sure many people would believe the word of a jilted fiancé. Especially anyone who knows your sparkling personality."

He grimaced. He was tired of the conversation. His suit felt itchy. "Do not threaten me."

"Or what? You'll have your way with me?" She laughed unkindly.

She continued: "It's not a threat. I'm warning you, out of kindness, since we almost were family, what the consequences will be if you do not heed my advice." Then, she slammed her stick down on his desk.

"You think I don't know you? That you're some mystery to me? I know you perfectly well. I watched you as you watched Mary love a man who could not walk more than she loved you, the man who bought her a vulgar house. She would have thrown you over for a man who she pushed in a wheelchair. I saw you after she pushed the wedding back by months and months. You're nobody. You're nothing." She had to take a breath because the next part was terribly hard. "I saw what you did to her and I've watched her rebuild her life. You're still nothing. You're still nobody. She is still Lady Mary. And one day she will be the Countess of Grantham."

Violet grabbed the necklace around her throat and yanked it towards him, her own body following, as if she was a horse being lead by a particularly brutal master. "Did you think _this _would make you matter, you pathetic fool? Nothing has, nothing will, nothing ever could make you matter."

He didn't mean to say it, the words just slipped out. He didn't have her control, her finesse. And wasn't that always his problem? "I loved her. By God, I loved her. Maybe I still do. What do you know about it?"

"That," Isobel stated coldly, leaning her gloved hands onto his polished desk, "is a lie. _Rape_," and she let the word hang in the air, uglier, nastier, than any necklace could ever be, "is never about love."

"Clearly, you don't know what you're talking about, Mrs. Crawley." Adjusting his cufflinks, he began to walk around his desk to see them out.

"Yes, I do." Her voice rang clear as a bell. For the first time since meeting her, Violet was thrilled to hear Isobel's righteous tone. "_Rape_," again the word simmered in the air, "is about power and control, two things Mary never gave you. And never will."

"Goodbye," Violet said simply and the two women walked past him, opening the door themselves. At the last moment, she tore the necklace from her neck (she'd practiced the move several times the day before; it had to look effortless and well...it wasn't) and threw it at him. It hit him in the chest before he could collect himself. "Give that to your wife. You can use it as her leash. Good day," and she waved her little hand at him as if he was exactly what she'd called him...nothing.

* * *

><p>When they reached the car, the two women could finally relax their postures. They were both breathing hard; it took quite a bit of work to remain so cool. "Well," Isobel asked. "You're the maestro. How did it go? Maybe we should have talked about Mary more, and less about him?"<p>

"It went perfectly. You were wonderful. We were splendid. We won this battle but not the war, my friend," Violet cautioned. "Sir Richard's folly is not Mary. It's himself."

"What are you talking about? You called _this _the war, _today_! You told me this would be enough!"

Violet sighed deeply, held a hand to her temple. "That was before I had to kill my son for neglecting to mention that Sir Richard still owned Haxby Park."

For a moment her age showed, her hands trembled a bit. "No, I'm afraid that there are going to be several bloody battles before this is over."

* * *

><p>Mary and Dr. Clarkson had agreed on one more day in bed, just to be on the safe side. Although as soon as he left, she rolled her eyes and looked at Matthew seriously. "That man is not delivering our child."<p>

"I didn't know you had such strong feelings about him. Wasn't he your childhood physician?" Matthew replied, a little taken aback by her passion.

"Yes," she spat. "He told Mama and Papa that Edith definitely did not have the chicken pox and what do you know? The next day Sybil and I were itching away!"

He leaned over, his arms on either side of her to kiss her frowning mouth. "I think you're holding a grudge, Lady Mary."

"Oh, I'm holding a grudge all right." She crossed her arms. "But it's not about some childhood illness. It's about his misdiagnosis of you!"

Matthew sat beside her then, shaking his head. "Mary..."

"I mean, doesn't it strike you as a little ironic that the man who told you that you would never have children is counseling us on this pregnancy?" Sometimes keeping up with her made his head spin. "He told you that you would never walk again. Then, when a second doctor didn't agree with him, he lied to you. And then..."

Matthew put his head in hands, not because the topic was difficult for him. No, he'd laid down that burden a long time ago but because he knew once Mary got on her soap box there was no getting her down. It reminded him a bit of his mother but he knew he risked his life if he told her that. But he lifted his head when she stopped speaking and saw her lip was beginning to quiver.

"And then what?" he asked patiently, though to be honest, he didn't know how much more crying he could take.

But Mary bravely did not let any tears fall. "And then you all thanked him. Like he had done you some great service by not getting your hopes up. I was there. I was with you. You talked about rolling into the lake, for God's sake. Would hope have been so bad? He made you think your life as you knew it was over and meanwhile another doctor would have told you, in a few months, you'll be dancing."

"I see your point, darling," he said, patting her hand, trying to do anything to keep her from crying. "He was just doing what he thought was best."

Her eyes were instantly dry, as she went to her knees in front of him. "That's the point, don't you see? He doesn't know what in the hell he is talking about."

"Did you just say hell?"

She sat back against the pillows and more quietly finished. "I feel very passionate about this. I don't want him seeing us through this pregnancy."

"All right, if that's what you want. I suppose...I even see your point..."

She was muttering under her breath. "Just wait until tomorrow and see if you're sick, Lady Mary, just wait until tomorrow, to see if you miscarry, my foot!"

"Mary," Matthew murmured. "If we stay here, Dr. Clarkson will not be involved in the pregnancy. We'll go to London, find someone else. I don't know. And if we are back in New York, then we'll find a doctor there." He pressed his palm to her cheek. "But please, you must relax. Let me get you a glass of water."

"I'm tired of water," she said, rather petulantly.

"But this one isn't." He placed a hand on her belly and rubbed.

She sighed. Later, she would tell him about Richard. Later, tonight. Just not quite yet. Not when things finally seemed better between them."Fine."

When he returned, he had a glass in one hand and Gracie in his other arm. "Guess who is awake?"

Mary sat up, looked at the little girl who was rubbing her eyes. Her hair was a disaster, as it usually was after a nap. "She was only down for ten minutes."

"Yes," Matthew agreed, setting the water down so he could cuddle the girl in both of his arms. "But someone was giving a rather loud, rather passionate speech...and cursing." Mary's face colored. "You know what I think would be just wonderful? If we all took a nap!" His girls looked at him cynically. Naps were not wonderful. But he was exhausted and so were they. "We can all lay in this big bed together, just Mama, Papa, and Gracie."

"Baby!" Gracie murmured, pointing to Mary's stomach.

Matthew kissed her forehead. "Baby, too."

"Wawa," Gracie whispered pointing to the glass on the nightstand.

Matthew set Grace in the middle of the bed. "Do you want to try to drink it like a big girl? In a big girl glass?"

Gracie knuckled sleep from her eyes and nodded. Mary handed the glass to Matthew who held it for Gracie, who sipped delicately at it. "No mo'." She said at last and the glass was passed back to Mary.

"All right," whispered Matthew, "the door is closed. I've closed the curtains. Let's all snuggle up under this blanket together." Gracie fell asleep grinning, so pleased to be sleeping in between her mama and papa, within two minutes.

Mary ran her hand through Gracie's hair. Matthew reached out an arm that could just barely encompass the whole family. "You're so good with her," Mary whispered as quietly as possible looking at the little girl. "I don't even think you realize it." She met his eyes, heavily lidded, already drowsy. "And I'm not just saying that to make up for what I said the other night. It's true. You really are good with her, the best, really."

His eyes were almost closed. "Please don't cry."

She laughed silently. "I'm not going to cry. I'm just saying that I've known men who weren't comfortable around her and you're more than comfortable with her than anyone. You're stupendous."

Matthew's eyes popped open. He was no longer as tired as he'd thought. "What men?"

"_That's_ what you took away from what I was saying?"

"What men? Was that man with the dog, the one in the letter, was he one of them?" he asked stubbornly. _The man with the gray eyes, _he thought nastily. "I'm just supposed to fall asleep after you drop such a bomb?"

"It was just one man," she reached a hand up to smooth his hair. She loved his hair. "He wasn't ever important. He couldn't ever be."

"Because of Gracie," Matthew supplied.

She looked at him, carefully leaned over their child and kissed him, slowly, quietly, the perfect nap time kiss. "Because of you too," she whispered against his lips."Didn't you read that letter last night at all?"

They fell asleep, all curled together, and for the first time, everything felt exactly right.

Her cold toes, found his calf but he allowed it anyway. Gracie's hand kept flinging Matthew in the face until he gently rolled her onto her stomach, so she could stick her bum in the air. Mary burrowed, beneath the blankets, even her pillow, her breath across his arm. They could have been in New York or Downton Abbey itself. They could have been anywhere.

* * *

><p>Later after a quiet dinner, and putting Gracie to sleep, Matthew went into the wardrobe and took out one of Mary's nightgowns: it was silk and the color of crushed purple grapes. "Catch," he called and she laughed. "I promise my mother will never see you in it."<p>

"We still can't..." but this time she frowned. "I miss being with you that way."

He went to her then, took her face in his hands and kissed her. He went on kissing her until she'd backed up against the wall, her arms winding around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. "Tomorrow is Sunday," he murmured as his hands rushed over her. "On Monday, we'll get mother to watch Gracie and you and I will go to London and get the final word on if..."

She sucked in a breath as he pulled her blouse away from her neck so he could press kisses to her shoulders. "Historically, doctors have said that you shouldn't, when you're with child. But Granny said that she and Grandfather did it anyway during both..." He stopped his affections to her neck for a moment.

"I know you don't want to hear that right now. It's just I haven't had your hands on me in _days _and my brain is so fuzzy. But all that to say, most doctors today say that it's perfectly all right throughout the pregnancy, unless it's uncomfortable for the mother."

His hands were on her breasts, gently massaging, and she could feel his smile against his cheek. "It sounds like you've done your research."

"Of course, I've done my research," she panted a little. "Nine months is a long time. But you have to stop. On Monday we'll see the doctor and we'll see..." He backed up about three inches; she grinned and pushed him farther away. "Move. I've got to go change in the bathroom."

"You've never changed in there since we've been married." He quirked his head at her.

"If you must know," she replied as haughtily as possible. "My skirt was tighter than usual this morning, just a bit. And that means it's beginning and I just think I would like to be in the habit of getting dressed and undressed without you seeing me flub about."

He grabbed her hips. "But you know that I like, thinking of you, my wife, carrying my child. It pleases me." His words against her ear made her shiver.

"Well I don't understand it," she snapped, pushed him away again, and walked to the bathroom. "And when I come out, we must have a serious conversation and you're going to be angry at me so you can just forget all those lovely images you have in your head right now."

When she came out, he was already in bed. The nightgown felt so short that she pulled on the hem. "Is this the hard thing you have to tell me?" he asked and held out his hand for her.

"Yes," she said softly.

"Well then, I think you should tell me while you're sitting on my lap, in that nightgown. It will put me in a much better mood, I promise."

Because she really was that desperate and because she really was worried about his reaction, she complied. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed herself against him, as if she could hold him to her and keep him from storming off to London to kill Sir Richard. "I know you can't promise _not _to be mad," she whispered into his ear sadly. "But can you promise to just...maybe...not be _so_ mad?"

He pulled her away by the arms so he could see her face. "What's going on?"

"I don't want to cry," but her lip trembled. "But I am just so worried that you will..."

"Mary, Darling." He pressed his thumb to her lips. "I can't help you or put your mind at ease until you tell me what is going on."

"You remember Sir Richard." Looking back, it probably wasn't the best way to start the conversation. She was just so nervous that he would take it badly, that it would upset him. She remembered how much it upset her, how much it still did. She wasn't any good at sharing burdens, and kept flexing her hands.

She watched his jaw tighten, much as it had on the night he'd caught Sir Richard grabbing her arm, and then he nodded. "Well, the other day, there was this box addressed to me. So I opened it and it was from him." _Make it sound simple_, she advised herself.

"Where is this box?" Matthew spoke so slowly, so calmly that Mary started to shiver and this time it was not because he was whispering in her ear.

"I gave it to Granny and your mother," she admitted, looking down at her lap.

"When was this?" God, his voice was calm, devoid of emotion. She did not know what she expected but it wasn't this, the rage beneath the surface of calm. Perhaps they were more alike than they knew.

"Oh," Mary picked at a thread on his pajamas. "Sometime this week."

"Mary," he warned.

"The day I fell." she whispered.

"What was in this box?" She wished she could somehow soothe that hard line of his jaw. It looked painful. He didn't look like the man she knew him to be, who laughed naked in bed with her, shooing away her cold toes, who told Gracie bedtime stories and changed nappies.

"A note. A necklace." Finally, she met his eyes.

"What did the note say?"

"Matthew, please!" she cried. He simply lifted her by the shoulders off of his lap and set her on the other side of the bed. He began to pace, his feet hard against the floor, pounding into it. Poor Molesley probably thought they had an elephant upstairs.

"What did the note say?" he repeated. "Mary, I'm warning you..."

"What?" she pleaded. "What are you warning me of? I didn't want to tell you because you'd be upset and that's all he wanted. He wants us to be upset. And now you are so what is the point?"

Matthew ran a hand over his face. "What did the note say?"

"The note was addressed to me. It congratulated me on our marriage and our return to England."

"Is that all it said?"

"Please, Matthew. What good can this do any of us?"

"You told me you would say the hard thing. You promised me. Now you have to say it."

"It was a ruby necklace," she said brokenly. "At the bottom of the note he wrote _I always loved you in red..._But really Granny and your mother said that they would take care of it all, that they would protect us."

"I should be the one protecting you," he said, his voice cold. "Not Mother, not Cousin Violet." He sat in his swivel chair, put his head in his hands. He needed the whole story. In two seconds he was up, walking purposefully to the bedroom door, opening and bellowing, screaming really in his first show of emotion, "Mother! You best come here!" Isobel came out of her room at the same time Gracie started crying.

Mary rushed past him, in the short nightgown that he'd promised his mother would never see, into the nursery. She picked Gracie up and held her tight to her chest. "Everything is all right, sweet girl. Don't worry. You know tomorrow we'll see Tom and Sybil and Sybil's belly you love so much and Robbie too. I think you'll like him best of all." The baby wailed through the entire conversation so that Mary was reduced to "Shh, Shh, my darling girl. It's all right now. Shh."

Matthew stood in the nursery doorway, shirtless, completely helpless, his mother peering in over his shoulder. He looked shocked to see Gracie in Mary's arms and a little sorry too, even sorrier when the baby went on crying which wasn't like her at all. "I'll make her a bottle," Isobel offered and Mary nodded her head against the baby's hair as she continued to sway and move her body, trying to comfort.

After a few more minutes of crying, Matthew went to Mary, who couldn't look him in the eye, and held his arms up for the baby, "Do you want to rock with Papa?" he tried to be like Mary, to keep his emotion out of his voice but he couldn't. Grace looked up at him for a moment, considering, but then burrowed her face in her mother's breasts, hidden from him, continuing to cry.

Isobel brought the bottle and Mary sat in the rocking chair. "Here you are, Gracie Girl. You love your milk before bed and Granny Isobel made it just for you." But the baby would not take it, only continued to sob brokenly and Mary again brought her up to her chest.

"Sometimes, in new surroundings..." Isobel offered lamely.

"It isn't the surroundings, Mother," Matthew replied tersely which only had the baby wailing louder. He lowered his voice. Again, he tried to be like Mary, to sound cheerful when he didn't feel it. "She's upset because she just heard her father bellowing like a mad man, probably waking her from a dead sleep."

"Don't worry," Mary murmured, briefly touching his hand before she went back to swaying with the crying Gracie. "She'll tire herself out and go back to sleep."

"You mean she's going to cry herself to sleep?" he asked, clearly concerned, as if this would affect the rest of her life. "I don't want her to do that."

"Oh, Matthew," Mary whispered. "She's a baby. I'm afraid you don't get a say in the matter. It's just that...I don't think she's ever heard anyone she actually knows yell like that. But it was bound to happen sometime, right?" she tried to smile, sway and sway.

"Maybe we can bring her to bed with us. She liked that for the nap." His eyes looked so pitiful, his hair all mused from his worried hands continuing to run through it, as he made his suggestion.

"But..." Mary closed her eyes. It always broke her heart to hear Gracie cry. Sometimes when was she feeling particularly melancholy she thought that was what motherhood was–moments of her heart bursting and moments of it breaking. "Didn't you want to finish talking about..."

He shook his head. "That doesn't matter...now. We can handle it later. She's what's important now." He looked up at her. "Mary, don't cry, please. I can't take it if both of you are crying."

"It's only that you're doing exactly what I asked you to the other day." She felt exhausted from swaying but Grace had not let up. "Just that you would put her before me, or you, or us. Or anything." Before she started to sob she added, "And I'm also crying because you promised me that your mother would never see me in this nightie and now she has."

He gave a weary laugh; he had to force it out for her sake. "Let's go to bed. Mother, I will need to speak with you in the morning."

Isobel touched his shoulder. "It's been handled. Violet and I handled it." But he shook her off, put his arm around Mary and the baby and led them to their room.

It still wasn't easy when they all got into the bed. The baby wouldn't leave Mary's arms, laying against her chest, occasionally letting out a whimper, or a hiccup.

"She hates me," Matthew stated, laying back against the pillows.

Mary was now stroking the baby's hair. "She doesn't _hate _you. She loves you. How many times has she told you? How many times has she run to you and said it for no reason at all except that she had to tell you right then how much she loved you?"

"You're exhausted," Matthew worried. "I can see it. I've been seeing it for days. I should have..."

"What?" she asked gently, because the baby's whimpers were beginning to lessen though her eyes were wide open and trained on Matthew.

"I should have considered your feelings, my responsibilities to this family before I went off like that," he murmured. "I should have seen that something was wrong and made you tell me earlier. I should have done more to help. I'm not blind; this pregnancy is exhausting you."

"Matthew," she tried to reach for him but Grace immediately began to cry. "You didn't handle it badly. What he did was beyond wrong. Despicable. I understand that you're angry and I understand your reaction. I'm not upset with you. I love you. We've been married two months; we're still learning. I didn't know how to tell you and you didn't know how to ask."

"What was your reaction?" he asked and she thought: _oh God, he hasn't put it together yet._

"I'll tell you but please, she's just calming down. You can't react. I'm not saying that you're not entitled to your reaction but please..."

"I know," he replied, reaching out a hand which Gracie warily allowed him to place on her back to rub there through her pajamas. "There's Gracie."

"I received the box," Mary whispered because she thought the baby might be near sleep. "I read the note. And then I fainted. And I know I've been a horrible wife to you these last few days but I haven't dealt with it well. I haven't dealt with it at all actually. I keep having these nightmares."

He moved closer to his wife and child, wrapped his arm around Mary with one hand, and continued to rub Gracie's back, who kept looking up at him and blinking, tears clinging to her eyelashes. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know how to. I didn't want to think of him, of it. I don't want him anywhere near me or you or especially Gracie. Not even if it's a box in the house. Or a nightmare in the night. So I gave it to Granny and your mother and they went to see him and read him the riot act, apparently. They won't give me details and I don't want them." She paused. "Ever since that night happened, all I've wanted, all I've wished for, is for it to be over. And it never is." He squeezed her shoulders, wishing, desperately that he could do something, anything to make it over for her.

The baby reached out a hand for him and then Matthew lifted her, moving her onto his bare chest. "See?" Mary told him. "She loves her papa. You know, in some of my books, the good ones, they say it's good for parents, with newborns, to lay skin to skin, that it helps with bonding."

He closed his eyes. "Do you think it works for nineteen month olds?" He sounded so sad.

"I think," she said after a moment, "that your entire relationship with Gracie has been such a miracle that anything is possible."

He continued to rub Grace's back. He could hear her little sighs, feel her breath on his chest. "Remember how I told you I read the letter you wrote your Granny about why you gave her the middle name of Violet?"

"Yes," Mary whispered back, curling under his shoulder so she and Grace were nearly nose to nose.

"Well, I just think," he had to pause over the lump in his throat. "I just think that you were right about naming her Grace, that I didn't do anything to earn or deserve her or her love, that she really was an unmerited favor given to us."

Mary began to cry for the fortieth time that day.

* * *

><p>Later, he woke in the middle of the night. He had to get up. He had to move. He stood by the window for a moment then glanced back at the bed where Mary and Gracie slept. The moon was strong enough outside his window that he could, if he peered closely enough, read the letter he chose next.<p>

_Dear Granny,_

_Today I took Gracie out for the first time since I gave birth. Don't worry, it was an unreasonably warm fall day (I didn't even wear a jacket; but she was all bundled up, don't think for a second I would slack on my duties). She seemed so excited! She looked up at me and kicked her feet and it was as if she saying, "Finally! The world!" We only went around the block. A very short journey for a very little baby, I thought. I wished you were with us._

_It was all very nice and sweet. I felt very proud pushing the pram, the whole way everyone giving me endearing looks and I could just hear them sigh in their mind, "Oh! A baby!" It made me very happy, because if I had stayed at Downton, no one would look at me like that._

_But then the strangest thing happened. Outside the market, on the corner, a man and a woman were arguing. She wasn't wearing a coat either, just short sleeves. I told you it was warm. I tried not to watch them, but I saw the man grab the woman's arm, just above the elbow, in a tight grip. I had to turn around and go home immediately. _

_I don't think of what Sir Richard did often. I try not to. It's not good for me to think of such things and it's not good for Gracie either. It must be forgotten, it must be put away. I imagine a box and I put him inside it. There is room enough in that box for that whole library scene. _

_But Richard (must I call him Sir? Now?) used to do that to me sometimes–if I talked to Matthew too long, after I put him off time and time again with the wedding date. He would grab me, just above my glove, so I could really feel it. It usually made a little thwack sound too. Once Matthew looked at me and I know he heard. Sometimes Richard left a bruise. Sometimes he didn't. The thing is, Granny, I usually **had** done something wrong. I usually **had** been paying too much attention to Matthew. I usually **had** pushed back the wedding months and months and months. So I couldn't even be angry or righteous about him putting his hands on me like that and both Richard and I knew it._

_I don't like to think of these things. I don't like to think of these things at all._

_I don't know anything about that couple on the corner. He might be a very nice man. She might be a horrible woman. We need not look any further for a very nice man and a horrible woman than at Mr. Bates and the late Mrs. Bates. Or maybe the man just misjudged his strength. Maybe my view was incorrect._

_I don't know anything about them._

_But it made me wonder, even though I hate to think of it, I really do, how many women does it happen to? How many men do what Sir Richard did to Lady Mary in her red dress in the small library? Could you fill a ship with us–the victims? Two ships? Five? How many throughout history? I think you could fill a country with us. _

_All my love, always,_

_Mary_

_Don't be sad. I wouldn't send this at all except, well, you're the only I can talk to about these things of course, and a photograph of Gracie is enclosed._

Gracie was laughing in the photograph. She had one tooth he could clearly see and her head was thrown back in a fit of giggles. Her feet were bare and Matthew could imagine Mary arguing with the photographer over the whole less than typical scene. He could hear her saying, "My granny likes happy babies. She's just mad for baby toes. So this is what I want and this is what I will have."

He wondered what she'd done to make Gracie laugh. Probably something ridiculous, something so completely out of character for Lady Mary. He looked at the photograph for a long time before he was able to set it aside. _That's __**my **__daughter, _he thought. _That's __**my **__Gracie. _Then he climbed back into the bed with his family, fitting his arms around both, no, all three of them.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: First off, I do want to point out, that in Mary's letter in this chapter, there is a tone of and even a few outright sentences, where she blames herself for a part of what Sir Richard did. Just because that's what Mary was feeling at the time, as victims of abuse of any nature typically do, <strong>does not make it true.<strong>_ _I was not trying to say Mary was at fault; I was trying to let you into Mary's process through this whole thing._

_Anyway, I'm dying to know what you thought of Violet and Isobel! And Richard is married...to Marianne? And they are reopening HAXBY? What about poor Matthew with the baby at the end? And the letter he read from Mary? Let me know. I respond. You guys are the best and keep pushing me forward all the more quickly. Goodnight! Hopefully next chapter will be up earlier tomorrow night!_


	22. Chapter 22

_Author's Note: Oh, hey guys! Have to thank the beta, **Faeyero**, who as always improved the chapters and makes me laugh. Also to all you new reviewers! HULLO, as Gracie would say. I think I've replied to all of you, except if you have the Private Message disabled. Hopefully, I hope (yes, I doubly hope) that there will be two updates tomorrow because there is quite a cliffhanger and I don't want to do that to you. PS Remember while reading this that only Granny, Isobel, and Robert know that Richard owns Haxby still..._

* * *

><p>Chapter Twenty Two<p>

_Today, _Mary realized, _is one of those rare perfect days. _It was Sunday and she was sitting between her sisters as Robbie and Gracie ran around the grass in front of them. Cora was with the children, and even though she knew it wasn't completely appropriate for a woman of her age and station to _run, _every now and then she would give a kind of hop skip, as if she couldn't help but join in her grandchildren's joy.

"They're so happy," Sybil murmured, rubbing her belly. The sun felt just warm enough on her face as she leaned back, her hands in the grass. She was completely comfortable, which in her sixth month of pregnancy was becoming a rarer and rarer feeling.

"I'm so happy that they're together, playing," Mary replied, grinning as Robbie, just a few months older than Grace, pulled the little girl into an embrace, then tugged on his Grandmama's skirts until she joined the hug.

Ever the competitor, Edith added, "And then Sybil our babies can play together, just the two of them!" Mary tried not to smile when one of Sybil's fingers subtly poked her hand.

"Mary!" Edith cried. "Your ring! Or should I say, your rings!" Mary flinched. She'd only lifted her hand to shield her eyes, watching Gracie pick up a stick and discard it. She knew they were extravagant and she knew what Edith's reaction would be.

Mary didn't want to upset Edith either, who surely should have been in bed, but had promised her husband that she would only be sitting and would not over exert herself. Besides, she argued, the earlier danger signs that caused the bed rest were behind them now.

"Oh Mary." Sybil nearly crawled over Mary's lap (rather awkwardly with her belly) to view Mary's hand until Mary showed her as well. "They're gorgeous! Oh, how pretty. Just think–someday you'll be passing them down to Grace. They'll be an heirloom." Sybil released her and Mary smiled gratefully at her. She could always count on Sybil to be supportive, no matter what.

Sybil turned her simple gold band around her finger. She loved Mary and she loved Mary's ring. But she loved Tom and still, even now would have chosen his ring over any other. Edith, however, was also looking down at her own wedding ring. It _did _have a diamond in it, but nothing like Mary had. _Wasn't that typical_?

"Mary," Edith began in an offhand way that usually meant she was out to cause trouble. "I noticed you're not wearing a corset."

"Oh, here we go," Sybil complained. "I still remember when I only asked for my lacings to be loosened, just a tiny bit, and you told me to be careful, that it was a slippery slope and that it didn't shrink in the drawer."

"Well, it _is_ a slippery slope," Edith defended herself. "Mary, I know things are..." she turned down her nose, "different in America but I don't know what you're thinking of walking around like that. Don't you feel naked?"

"I'm not wearing a corset either," Sybil reminded Edith.

"Yes, but you're pregnant," Edith sighed. "Though I still think a woman should wear one, pregnant or not."

"Well, I don't," Sybil said simply. "I'm not trying to be contrary. I've always thought they were stupid. They change the way you walk, the way you sit. I hate them! And," she continued, "doctors are now very actively starting to say that it isn't good for the baby or the mother when she wears a corset during pregnancy."

"Doctor Clarkson said it was fine," Edith replied defensively. "It's the way things have always been done."

Mary tried to stifle a laugh, turning it into a cough. "No, but Nurse Branson is right. I've read in several journals that it's unhealthy for the baby and for the mother. I mean, think of it...Sybil, I am sure you have a more medical explanation...but your body is trying to grow another human being in a very limited space. Why limit the space still more by wearing a corset?"

Edith looked her sister up and down. "Why, Mary, is there something you haven't shared with us? Perhaps something rather important?"

Mary shrugged delicately. "Maybe Matthew prefers me this way." Edith looked scandalized but Sybil giggled. "Yes, Edith. I am pregnant. But please don't say anything, it's very early and no one but Sybil, Granny, and Isobel know."

"You told Sybil, Granny, _and_ Isobel!" Edith complained petulantly. "Well it seems I'm the last to know!"

Mary sighed. She hoped that, however many children she and Matthew had, it would not be three girls in a row, who would constantly compete with one another. "They only know because they guessed. And Sybil knows because...well, Gracie..."

"Oh, Edith, it was so adorable...You just have to see little Gracie..." Sybil stopped to call to the two children and they came immediately, holding hands so sweetly. "Gracie," Sybil began. "Where is the baby?"

Gracie rubbed Sybil's belly lovingly. "Sybil. Tom. Baby," she crooned to her soon-to-be- born cousin. Next, she moved to her mother, rubbing her mother's much smaller stomach, "Mama. Baby," she said definitely, looking over her shoulder to see if Robbie and Grandmama were watching. Next, she moved to Edith. She hovered there, a little shy, finally, just barely touching Edith's belly. "Baby?" she asked.

"Baby," Edith confirmed.

Cora, who had come over to join the children, let out a little cry. "Mary...are you?"

"Mama," Mary sighed. As if she didn't have her own heightened emotions to deal with–now her mother would be crying all over her. "It's early. No one–well, hardly anyone–knows yet. I'd like to keep it that way."

"Well, Gracie knows," Cora said as she began to weep. "All my girls. Pregnant at the same time. Oh, my! Dr. Clarkson is going to have his hands full of Crawley women."

"Dr. Clarkson will not be a part of my pregnancy," Mary said definitively.

"Oh?" Edith crowed. "You're too good for the family doctor now?"

"No, I'm not too good for him, _Edith." _Mary tried to remain calm but it was rather difficult when Edith found fault with whatever she did. "I just don't trust his abilities. Matthew and I are going to see a doctor in London tomorrow. He's very well known, a modern thinker. Nurse Branson recommended him to us." She let out a little laugh, bumping her shoulder into Sybil's. "Edith, I will be sure to tell you how it goes. Maybe you ought to switch."

"Don't bother, I'm very happy with Dr. Clarkson." She rubbed her belly looking very self-satisfied. "I believe he is more than capable."

Mary snorted. "Dr. Clarkson told Matthew he would never father a child and yet here I am carrying his child!"

"Twice!" Sybil said grinning. "Gracie_ and_ this baby."

Mary turned seriously to Edith, touched her arm. "Edith, if you're having problems–even if you're happy with Dr. Clarkson, maybe seeing a specialist would be a good idea. I'm sure he would understand your desire for a more trained opinion."

Edith wrenched her arm away from her sister's touch. "Who said I'm having problems? Everything is going perfectly well."

* * *

><p>Tom and Matthew were walking the grounds together. Matthew had thought about it at length and decided that he had to talk to someone about what was going on. It could not be Mary–it was too upsetting for her. At one time, it might have been Robert, but not now. He trusted Tom, though they'd never been close in the time that Tom worked at Downton Abbey. But in the course of marrying Sybil and providing for his family, even handling these summer trips to Downton, Tom had proven himself to be a man of integrity and the kind of father and husband Matthew wanted to be.<p>

"You know that book Lady Mary," Tom began and then stopped when Matthew glanced up at him, "that Mary suggested I write?"

"Yes," Matthew recalled. "I quite agree with her, you know. You have a unique voice that people deserve to hear from."

"Well don't say anything to anyone. I haven't even said anything to Sybil because I don't want to get her hopes up now that she's with all her sisters, but I've had a letter from a publisher," he said excitedly. "They want me to write a book. It's the same company also owns the newspaper. They'd give me a few months off, paid, and Sybil would be able to have the baby here and be near Mary after so long..."

Matthew slapped him on the back. "So, what's wrong with that? It sounds perfect."

Tom looked a little queasy. "Well, what will I write about?"

"What do they want you to write about?"

"The Irish experience, same as my column."

"Well, what if you had a go writing something, just for yourself, longer than your column about the Irish experience and see what you see?" Matthew advised. "If you don't like it, no-one even has to know about it. But Tom, I agree with Mary...I really think you would be wonderful at it."

Tom pursed his lips and nodded. "I think I'll try."

"Well, Tom, now that you've confided in me, I think I must confide in you as well. I wish I didn't have to burden you but..." Matthew sighed. "My news is not as pleasant as yours, and you can't tell anyone, not even Sybil. I need your word."

"Oh now, you'll get me in trouble. Can't even tell Sybil? Don't you know the rules of marriage? She'll kill me if she finds out I knew something and didn't tell her," he complained jokingly, but then added, "You have my word."

"Yes, I know the rules–because I'm about to break them." He took a deep breath and relayed the story to Tom–that Sir Richard had not taken the breaking off of the engagement well and that he had "hurt" Mary (he did not go into detail, but he could tell, by the hardness in Tom's eyes, it didn't matter how Richard had hurt Mary; that word alone was enough). He explained that she'd had no contact with him since then but that he'd sent her a parcel and a vaguely threatening note, causing Mary to fall while pregnant. He did not, could not, disclose anything about Grace. He ended with, "I just don't know what to do. I have to talk to someone about it. And it has to be another man whose a husband, who would understand."

"Holy Mary Mother of God! Excuse my language, Mr. Crawley, I mean, Matthew, but what a son of bitch that man is," Tom spat.

"I share your sentiments," Matthew stated. "He's exactly that."

"I want to tell you that one night you and I will go and find him and knock a few of his teeth out. Better yet, cut off his balls, excuse my language," Tom added. "But you're right. You're a husband and a father. You can't be the aggressor; you've got to be on the defensive with this. Protect her, be there for her and her family. And keep him away. But," he grabbed Matthew's shoulder. "You have every right to be angry, to go off by yourself on a long walk and kick some trees, curse him out, and imagine every way you'd like to kill him. And of course this stays completely between us."

Matthew looked him the eye. "You're a good man, Tom."

"Would you mind telling his Lordship that? After three years of marriage to his daughter and nearly two babies, I still think he's still looking for ways to get rid of me."

Matthew laughed. "I would but I don't have a leg to stand on with the man either."

Tom hooked an arm around Matthew's neck. "We're the rebels of the family. The Bransons and O'Crawleys. You sure you're not Irish at all?"

* * *

><p>Carson brought some lemonade out to the women and little glasses for the children. Gracie was completely taken with him, just as Mary had been as a child, running up to him and holding her arms aloft. "Up!" she cried.<p>

Mary shaded her eyes. "She wants you to pick her up, Carson."

"I am aware, milady, just let me put this tray down," he said with a great deal of dignity. Then he picked the little girl up. "Hello, Miss Gracie," he greeted the baby. "How are are you today?"

She reached down and laid her hand on Carson's stomach. "Baby?" she asked.

The sisters dissolved in laughter (Edith, perhaps less enthusiastically. Her son or daughter would never have _such _manners). They laughed even harder when Carson, very stoically replied, "No, Miss Gracie, there is not a baby inside of there."

"Dat?" she pointed to the lemonade. Carson picked one of the smaller glasses and held it to her lips.

"Here you are, Miss Gracie."

She made a face, like she'd bitten into a whole lemon, upon her first taste of lemonade. But then she asked, "Mo'." Again she took a sip, made a face, and drank some more. Carson's lips curved slightly, before he handed her back to Mary.

"Thank you, Carson. We appreciate it very much. And...sorry for the baby comment. It's her new obsession," Mary told him.

"You know you never owe me an apology, milady." He winked at Grace and bowed his head slightly.

Gracie was only in her mother's arms for a second, before she was running after Robbie and Grandmama again, yelling something even Mary couldn't understand. Mary smiled but a part of her wondered what part of the house her Papa was hiding away in. Was Lord Grantham watching from some window?

"Sybil, can you watch the children for a moment? I'm going to go find Papa." She stood and picked up a glass of lemonade, carrying it with her and leaving her shoes on the lawn, so that when she walked into Downton Abbey, it was in her stockinged feet and wearing no corset. For a moment, Mary nearly laughed, imagining Crawley anscestors rolling over in their graves.

But suddenly, she could not laugh or even smile. Upon entering the hall, she found her feet taking her to an unexpected destination, quite against her will.

* * *

><p>The men returned to the party within the half hour and as soon as the children saw them, they ran to them as fast as their little legs could carry them, Robbie shouting, "Da! Da!"<p>

Gracie laughed, reaching her arms out for, "Papa!" who picked her up and swung her around to her great delight.

"Mo'" she begged and he complied.

"Where is Mary?" Matthew asked once they reached Sybil, Edith, and Mary's shoes.

"She went in the house," Edith informed him. "A half an hour ago."

Matthew leaned down and set Gracie on the grass. "Gracie?" he asked her. "Can you keep Aunt Sybil and the baby company while I go and find Mama?" Gracie nodded and since she took her task so seriously, began to stroke Sybil's belly.

"That feels lovely," Sybil told her (and it did). "Thank you."

"Yes," Gracie replied.

"Maybe you should tell your Uncle Tom to take notes," she quipped, winking at her husband.

* * *

><p>Walking into the house, Matthew hoped she was making up with her papa wherever he was hiding. He had a feeling, though, that he would find her someplace else entirely.<p>

The door to the small library was ajar. He pushed it open to find his wife sitting on one of the chairs, a glass of lemonade resting on her lap, her removed stockings at her feet. He went to her, crouching down to meet her eye. "Mary?"

She smiled, but it was only a ghost of her real smile. "I'm drinking lemonade in the small library. I'm...remembering."

He put his hands on her knees. "It isn't good for you to be here. Let's go back outside, to the children and your sisters."

"Did I ever tell you," she began calmly, "that after I broke the news to him, that it was over, there was this look in his eye, and I knew he was going to hurt me. A part of me thought: _of course he isn't going to hurt me. _But another part knew. Definitely knew. And even when he came at me and I tripped over the table, I didn't scream. I could have. But I didn't. Why, do you think?"

"Mary," he sighed, rested his forehead on her knees, felt her hands brush through his hair. "You were afraid."

"No," she shook her head. "Not yet. I didn't scream because of pride. Because I thought I could handle it. Most of all, because I didn't want to give him the satisfaction." Her voice broke: "How _stupid_ is that. How _completely_ stupid. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction." She took another sip of lemonade. "Even with Pamuk. I threatened to scream. I wanted to scream. Why didn't I?"

"Please," Matthew implored, "Let's leave this room."

She pursed her lips, turning her head as if she was looking at something he couldn't see. "Because of my pride and my reputation. Much better to lay there and let Mr. Pamuk do what he pleased. Much better to stand there, terrified, with Richard's hand around my throat, the other at my breast. Silent. Completely silent. I never even screamed. Not until it was nearly over."

He took her hands, squeezing gently. "Mary, do you trust me?"

Her eyes were on the bookshelf, the place where the act had taken place years before. But she nodded.

"Then I am asking you to trust me. Now, please, let's go back outside to the children."

She picked up her stockings but didn't put them back on, instead handing them to Matthew. "Do you think you could put these in your pockets?" He did as she asked and took her hand. She left the glass of lemonade in the library, on the small table she'd once knocked over in her panic. When they finally exited, Matthew closed the door completely, then wrapped his arms around his wife. "Thank you," she said into his neck. One of her fingers found his wedding band and traced it. "Thank you."

When they walked outside, they were shocked to see Robert holding Gracie. "Wait," Mary whispered. "Perhaps if I'm not around, he will be more open to her."

So they stood in the shadows, their arms loosely around one another's waists, watching Gracie and her grandpapa.

* * *

><p>Mary had not been far off from the truth. Robert had been watching from the windows. He watched as his girls refused chairs, preferring to sit on the grass, even Edith. He watched them laugh and giggle amongst themselves, as they had when they were very young. He saw Tom and Matthew go off walking together. And of course, there were the children–his grandchildren–running, playing. Robbie had found a stick and was using it to walk with. Grace kept trying to hold his hand. Cora was in the midst of it, clearly having the time of her life. She kept throwing her head back and laughing, looking very much like the young bride he'd married so many years before.<p>

Almost against his will, he found himself leaving the room and walking out onto the front lawn. Edith and Sybil did not notice him for a moment and it was awkward when they finally did. "Oh, Papa!" Edith spoke at last. "Isn't the weather wonderful?"

"Yes, very," he replied shortly, his hands behind his back. Cora spotted him and took the children by their hands, bringing them over to him. "Cora," Robert began, his voice stern. "I saw you running and I just do not believe..."

Cora interrupted him, speaking to the children. "Let's give Grandpapa a kiss, shall we?" She lifted Robbie, who was more used to his grandfather, first, and gave Robert little choice but to take the boy in his arms. Dutifully, Robbie kissed his grandfather's cheek and then wiggled down to run and play with his stick. Next, Cora lifted Gracie into his arms. She was not used to this man, had never been spoken to by him, let alone held.

Robert's face softened. She was a miniature of Mary, not just the eyes and the hair, but the expression, slightly cynical, wondering: _now what is it that you want me to do? _She allowed herself to be held but still, she managed to keep her body away from him, her arms hanging at her sides. She would not hold on. "Give Grandpapa a kiss, Gracie," Cora encouraged.

The little girl poked him in the chest. "You?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, taking her question as seriously as she asked it. "I am your grandpapa."

She quirked her head, looking into his eyes, thinking, thinking, always thinking. Just like Mary. Finally, she took both of his cheeks in her small hands and turned his face towards her and pressed her baby lips to his, before laying her head on his shoulder and yawning. She swung one arm over his neck, playing with his hair.

Cora smiled and left them, following Robbie on some adventure.

Finally, after some time, Mary and Matthew approached. "Hello Papa," Mary said a little shyly to her father.

"Mary!" he startled, still holding the baby. Embarrassed, he looked at the ground. Then he gaped. "Where are your shoes...your...? Your feet are...bare."

"Yes," she agreed, wiggling her toes in the grass. "It's wonderful. You should try it, Papa."

Abruptly, he handed Grace to Matthew. The poor baby seemed a bit confused by the abrupt hand off.

"Bye!" Grace waved over her papa's shoulder at the man she'd just nearly fell asleep against.

Robert paused, his back to the baby. Then he slowly turned and inclined his head. "Goodbye," he told her politely before retreating into the house.

* * *

><p>Matthew put the baby to bed that night and Mary waited in bed for him, wearing the purple nightgown. But it was taking much longer than usual, and every now and then Grace would let out a wail. So Mary rose, found a robe, and went to them.<p>

Matthew looked completely perplexed. "She rocks with me. She's asleep. And as soon as I put her in the crib, she starts to cry."

She took his hand. "That's because we've spoiled her and let her sleep with us."

"Only twice," Matthew defended while Mary raised an eyebrow at him. "So what do we do?"

"We put her in her crib and let her cry while we go to our bed," she advised.

"No," Matthew insisted. "I couldn't."

She leaned down and kissed him, lingering over it. "Well, I'm going to sleep while you continue to try your way." She laid her hand against his cheek. "I'm looking forward to tomorrow...and getting the all clear."

"You and me both," he replied, leaning his face into her hand. "All right, get some sleep. I'll finish up in here."

Half an hour later, Matthew carried the very sleepy baby into their room. Mary, as per usual, was burrowed into the covers, deeply asleep. "Don't tell Mama," he whispered to the baby.

Sweetly, she held her hand to her mouth. "Shh!"

He laid her in the center of the bed but she immediately crawled over to him to snuggle. "Lalou, Papa. Lalou," and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: I just love Mattew as Gracie's Papa. Okay listen, this may *seem* like a filler chapter but I swear to you that it's not. A lot of what's in here, hopefully, is setting up future conflict. What did ya think? I know a BUNCH of you have been waiting for Roberto to come around...a bit<em>


	23. Chapter 23

_Author's Note: Okay so first, I have to thank two people. **Faeyers**, who keeps me in line grammatically as well as knocking my knuckles for sloppy writing (in the best way) and also **GE **who has helped me greatly when it comes to historical research. I needed a modern take on the doctor's visit in this chapter, but modern FOR the 1920's, if you catch my drift. She helped me to accomplish this, with a bit of artistic license too. Sorry it is a short chapter and to **Eloise **who asked for a warning if there was a cliffhanger. Yes, dear, there is one here._

* * *

><p>Chapter Twenty Three<p>

For the first time in weeks, Mary woke and did not run to the bathroom. Instead she rolled over onto her her back, placing her hand low on her stomach. She did feel nauseous and she knew she would be sick, but she slipped from bed and walked to the bathroom, sat gracefully on the cool floor, and waited for her morning ritual to begin. _Progress, _she thought, and as soon as the word came into her mind, she realized she was talking to their baby, as she used to with Grace, when it was just the two of them in one body.

She wasn't even as sick as she had been these past weeks. Instead of fifteen minutes, her nausea passed in ten. She held both her hands to her belly, just there, and smiled. _You make me–you make us–very happy, _she told the baby before standing and walking back into the bedroom, only to put her hands on her hips at the sight that awaited her.

Her husband opened his eyes guiltily. "I couldn't just let her cry," he whispered, lying on his back with the baby on his bare chest. She was still asleep, drooling a bit on his chest

"What I'm worried about," she whispered back patiently, "is the fact that you are creating a habit of having a toddler join us in bed."

He looked at her hopefully. "Would that be so bad?"

She sighed, laughing under her breath, and turned onto her back. "Only if you ever want to make love with me again."

"Oh," he murmured. "Yes. Well." He cleared his throat. "What should we do?" he continued in a low tone.

"This _we_ business is hilarious, you know," she said, turning her face to smile at him. "I told you how to fix it last night. And you thought you could sneak her in here because Papa knows best."

"It's just when she cries," he complained. "It's like my heart is breaking."

She moved towards him, pressing her face against his bare shoulder, above Gracie's head. "I can definitely relate," she whispered against his bare skin, making him shiver. "But Captain Crawley, I'm afraid you'll have to toughen up. Especially if you ever want to see _me_ naked in this bed again."

* * *

><p>Surely it was impossible, but Mary thought her skirt felt a bit tighter when she put it on that morning. It had to be her imagination. But when they went to see the very prominent and modern Dr. George, he immediately had her step on the scale, and the numbers made her wince.<p>

"You've gained?" he asked and when she told him how much, he seemed pleased. "Don't worry, we'll go over some things. I'm sure everything will be perfectly normal." He seemed quite impressed with Matthew who remained in the room throughout the visit.

"I see you are a modern husband. I appreciate that in a father-to-be. It's not as if the mother is wholly responsible for the pregnancy," Dr. George chortled. He asked after her history in her first pregnancy, taking her through month by month, even asking about the duration of labor and Gracie's length and size. He was extremely thorough before he even began to ask about this pregnancy.

"And...this is all you do, Doctor? Your patients are all pregnant women?" Mary asked shyly.

"Yes. And some babies for a time after they are born. Currently, my specialty is rare. I didn't start out this way," he explained. "But my wife and I have six children and after her experience with our first, and with that doctor, and then when the second wasn't much better, I took an interest in the research of a field which was lacking..." he rolled his eyes. "It became glaringly obvious that the medical community was ignoring a very important field simply because they were afraid of the unknown."

He asked when she believed the baby was conceived and Matthew's ears turned pink. Then he asked when her last cycle was and Matthew's blush extended over his face. "This is how we determine how far along you are in the pregnancy," Dr. George explained.

"Oh," Lady Mary asked softly. "I've seen two doctors and they've both given me different numbers. One doctor told me that I was six weeks and the other eight."

Patiently, Dr. George asked, "Did either of those doctors ask about your cycle?" She shook her head. "Then, I am afraid both of those doctors were mistaken. Weeks are counted starting at the end of a woman's last cycle. Which means that you are ten weeks along, actually." When Mary looked worried, he continued. "But that's good news, actually because any the morning sickness you've been having should be leaving very soon."

She smiled at that and he began to ask about her morning sickness in detail, when it started, how long it lasted, if it only happened once a day. He asked if there had been any abnormalities and they explained about the fall.

He stopped writing and took his chin in his hand, looking thoughtful. "So, you fell unconscious and then slipped from the chair, landing on your side?" When she nodded, he asked, "Did anything precipitate this?" When she hesitated, he went on, "Because if something happened, if you were upset or stressed or startled, I would be far less worried than if it happened without notice."

"Something had upset me _greatly_," Mary told him, her eyes downcast.

"Well that's good!" Dr. George encouraged. "That means it is not a symptom of your pregnancy which means, from everything that you've told me, your pregnancy is coming along as perfectly as possible. And as for the fall, your husband says you slipped to the floor and fell on your side. There has been no bleeding. You are still sick in the mornings," he gave her a sympathetic look, "you're gaining the perfect amount of weight for a woman ten weeks along, despite your earlier wincing, Lady Mary. Oh, and on that score as well, you can expect to _show _earlier since this is your second pregnancy." Again he gave her a compassionate look when she winced. "But the good news is that you and your husband should meet this baby sometime at the end of this year. "

Mary shared a look with Matthew and he nodded. "Dr. George," she said. "We live in Yorkshire, near Ripon. We would love for you to be our doctor but..."

With a twinkle in his eye, he said, "You know more and more women are having their babies in hospitals these days."

Mary smiled wanly. "I'm afraid that's not how it's ever been done in our family. We're already not following tradition by coming to see you, actually."

"I know who your family is, Lady Mary," he assured her. "I actually live not far outside of Ripon but my primary practice is in London. People in cities tend to be more open minded and modern thinking than those in the country. I would be happy to be your doctor. I am sure we could work it out. For some appointments, you and your husband will come to London and if I may invite myself, I could come see you at your home for the others, especially as your time draws closer. As for the delivery, those things never go as planned. I tell you that as a doctor and as a father of six," he said with a wink. "But we can cross that bridge when we come to it. Your last labor lasted..." he looked down at his chart, "fourteen hours? Second babies do tend to come slightly more quickly than first babies, but I think we will have plenty of time for me to come to you, from Ripon or from London."

Matthew's winced at the mention of the fourteen hour labor but spoke up, coughing nervously. "Also, Dr. George, I know it's not typical. But, I will be with my wife when her time comes."

Dr. George looked at Matthew over his spectacles. "I've never had a father in the room before."

Because Mary was so alone last time, this was a bit of a sticking point for Matthew and he nervily asked, "Where were you when your six children were born, even when another doctor delivered the first two?

Mary looked a little taken a back at his question but Dr. George smiled. "I was in the room, but I am a physician."

Matthew continued, "And were you're duties simply that of a physician or did you also offer support to your wife?"

"I wasn't criticizing," Doctor George assured him. "I was just noting that it is a unique request."

"I will be there," Matthew promised, but he did look a bit queasy.

"The other doctor I saw," Lady Mary began, looking down at her tightly clasped hands, "after the fall, said there would be no way to be one hundred percent sure I hadn't miscarried until as much as twenty four weeks, when he would _try _to find a heartbeat with his stethoscope."

Dr. George looked at both of them over his glasses. "Lady Mary, Mr. Crawley, I can tell you without a doubt that right now, your baby is fine, and your pregnancy thus far has been perfectly normal. It's true that most doctors cannot hear the heartbeat until twenty four weeks because of lack of practice. Don't worry," he smiled. "I practiced on my wife on all six of our babies. Come to me at twenty weeks and I will find your baby's heartbeat and even let each of you hear it with my stethoscope."

"Doctor," Mary sighed. "We feel very relieved after this meeting."

"Of course," Dr. George chortled. "It pleases me to help mothers and fathers through this time. I'd like to see you in one month and please do call if anything changes before then. Do you have any more questions for me?"

Mary looked at Matthew and cocked her head. Her message was clear: _I will not be the one asking the doctor that _other _question we need answered. You will._

"Well, actually," Matthew cleared his throat. "We've heard different things from different sources but...when it...I mean to say, naturally..."

Dr. George began to laugh. "Excuse me, Mr. Crawley–I am not laughing at you. It's just that all fathers seem to ask that question in the same way. Yes, relations between man and wife during pregnancy are perfectly acceptable...as long as the mother is comfortable." He looked over his glasses at Matthew. "If she is not comfortable, the baby is not comfortable. Her levels of comfort will change throughout the pregnancy as the baby grows."

"I understand," Matthew replied, rather solemnly with a red face. "Thank you for clearing that up for us."

Dr. George showed them both to the door. He reassured them again that both Mary and the baby were absolutely fine and that he would be happy to see them again in a month.

"What did you think?" Mary asked as soon as they had left his office.

"I liked him very much. He knows what he talking about, and he is modern in his way of thinking...At first, I didn't understand your _passionate _reasons for not having Clarkson, but that visit was worlds different than anything Clarkson would have done."

Mary smiled. "I agree with you completely." She stopped and bit her lip. "Oh, I do wish Edith would go and see him. Sybil mentioned she's had some trouble and she did seem to be so uncomfortable when I saw her. And it seems as if she takes everything Dr. Clarkson says as gospel. I'm worried about her."

"Yes, Darling but Edith and Sir Antony get to make their own choices in this area just as we are making ours." Matthew opened the door for her and they began to make their way down the stairwell.

A few steps below him, Mary looked up at him, her face full of anxiety. "But what if something...happens?"

He kissed her forehead, just before they stepped onto the street. "I'm sure everything will be fine."

She tried to put it all out of her mind. Matthew was right; Edith would be fine. She took her husbands arm on the street, and leaned up towards his ear. "And now, do you know what I think we should do?"

"What?" he asked.

She pressed her lips to his ear. "I think we should find a shop with an array of the most beautiful nightgowns and whichever you pick, I will wear for you tonight...That is if you can stand to have our daughter out of our bed for a night."

* * *

><p>After their shopping jaunt, they arrived home to find Gracie just waking from her nap. Isobel handed the baby to Matthew since she was crying, "Papa," in her pitiful gruff post-nap voice. "Papa."<p>

"So?" Isobel asked eagerly. "How did it go?"

"It went perfectly. Thank you, Isobel," Mary replied warmly. "I think you would really like him. He said things are just splendid." Mary laid a hand on her stomach and smiled.

"Oh, my girl." Isobel hugged her. "I'm so happy to hear that. Besides you know Dr. Clarkson and I have never seen eye to eye exactly."

"We thought we would take Gracie out walking, to see the horses," Matthew informed her.

"Oh, do you want me to get the pram?" Isobel asked.

Mathew and Mary shared a glance. "No, actually. She likes to walk on her own sometimes and well...hopefully it will tire her out some so she'll sleep well tonight." Matthew colored.

"Darling," Mary said, taking the baby from his arms. "I'm going to change her and clean up a bit. All right?"

"All right." He was still blushing furiously. "I think I'll come with you," he added with a cough. As the family walked up the stairs, Isobel smiled and shook her head at her son's embarrassment.

He read with the baby in his lap, bouncing her to distract her enough so he could get through one letter while Mary was changing in the bathroom.

_Dear Granny,_

_I had to write you at once to share the happy news. Just today, Gracie took her first steps. We were sitting in the nursery and she was crawling around. I've noticed for days now that she keeps pulling herself up, by a table or chair, and her little baby toes are pointed like a ballerina's. _Straighten your legs out, my girl_, I think_._ But I never say it because she must learn this one on her own, I think._

_This morning she crawled to the rocking chair and pulled herself up and the chair reared forward and she gave a little shout and almost fell on her bottom but then she turned to me and grinned. She is such a happy baby, truly. She just looked at me and without fear, held out her arms for me and I held mine out for her._

"_Come here, sweet girl!" I encouraged. "I know you can do it."_

_And she did! Just two, maybe three steps and she was in my arms and safe. I was so very proud of her. Later, when she took her nap, before I started this letter, I cried a little. She's growing up so fast, you see. She'll be my only baby. Those are the last first steps I will ever see my only child take. _

_Oh, I know there were moments when I hated to have sisters. Especially Edith. Especially when she decided to write letters about Turkish matters. But...then I think of the day Sybil was born and how excited I was, how I would carry her about, and tell Carson with a great deal of dignity that Sybil was my baby, and not Mama's. Even Edith and I used to climb trees together while Sybil cried because she could not keep up with us. I just wish that somehow Gracie could know what it is like to have a sibling. _

_**Please ** do not send me a list of eligible bachelors that you believe would "take me as I am." I am very happy! My girl is growing up! And if our family is to be just the two of us, so be it. What a wonderful, happy family it will be._

_Love,_

_Mary_

He turned in his swivel chair, the baby on his lap, when he heard Mary come out. "You're wearing trousers!" he said as if she had put them on by mistake.

"Yes, I am aware of that." She tickled Grace's tummy. "I thought I should wear them before I can't fit into them anymore. And we are going to see the horses, so it made sense. Also, if we see Papa, it would be a bonus to witness his reaction to seeing his most hated daughter in trousers."

"You aren't the most hated," Matthew replied, leaning forward to give her a kiss. "Perhaps, just for now, momentarily, the least loved?" he replied hoping she would laugh, which she did.

* * *

><p>They had great fun walking to the stables at Downton. Gracie especially felt very grown up walking between both of her parents, one of her hands in each of theirs. She loved the game they played, "One, two, three, up!" Mama and Papa swinging her through the air as she giggled madly.<p>

"Mo', mo'!" she begged and time and time again she was swung through the air. They'd nearly reached their destination (it did take a bit longer with a toddler in tow) when they heard a car coming up behind them, and turned to wave at Mason, the Downton chauffeur.

But the car was not one they recognized. It wasn't owned by Lord Grantham or Sir Antony. In fact, they couldn't recognize the driver at all, until he braked next to the trio and rolled down the window.

"Hullo!" Gracie chirped to the driver.

"It must be fate!" the driver said enthusiastically. "I was just going to drive past Downton, to show my new wife the majestic grounds before we headed on to Haxby Park! We're to be neighbors!"

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Cliffhanger. I know you all always love to see his ugly mug in a chapter. Please review. Hoping to have a chapter posted tomorrow am and maybe, if I can get rid of this writer's block, tomorrow pm. xx<em>


	24. Chapter 24

_Author's Note: Thank you to **Faeyero** for her editing and hilarious commentary. I don't really think I have much to say except...many of you mentioned Edith in the comments. This how I feel about Edith: I am sure that in the three years since Mary has left, Edith has grown and matured as a person. But that took place while Mary was out of the picture. Edith never liked being in Mary's shadow and so I think she is regressing a bit. Which I think, if this was real life, would be perfectly normal. Edith has lived life without Mary for three years. And now she's back, with this cute little girl, this handsome heir husband, and gorgeous ring...Anyway, you guys are the best!_

* * *

><p>Chapter Twenty Four<p>

Upon hearing Richard's voice, Mary froze. There were times, after the library, when she would imagine that sound at the oddest of times–as she climbed into bed at night, at the doctor's office, even when reading. But then Gracie came and she was somehow able to tuck the library and Richard in a box and put the lid on tight.

Mary returned to herself and felt the warmth of Gracie's hand in hers, the squeezes the Gracie occasionally gave as she jumped up and down wanting to be swung again between her parents. She heard the little girl's chirped, "Hullo," to the man she didn't know, and watched as Sir Richard replied to her. He looked the same, his smile still a smirk. He looked the same. _Oh God, he looked the same._

"Why, hello there, little girl!" Richard spoke directly to Gracie now, as she hopped a little from one foot to another, his voice as sweet as syrup. "Did you know that I used to be _friends_ with your mama?" Gracie looked up at her mother to confirm or deny this but her mother only squeezed her hand, her face pale, watching the man in the car. "What's your name?" he asked, and when she did not reply, because she was too entranced with her own mother's face. "And how old are you?" he asked more loudly, so friendly he could be Father Christmas himself.

_Oh God, _Mary worried. _Oh God. Oh God._

Gracie let go of her father's hand to show this new stranger her fist. She unfurled one finger, much as she had on the day she first met Matthew. _She's eighteen months, _Mary had said that day in April, _but I haven't quite figured out how to teach her to communicate that._

"One! My, my!" Richard smiled or smirked. It was simply too hard for Mary to tell at this point. She felt like she'd fallen into a nightmare.

_The children. The children. Someone has to save the children._

She looked at Matthew. Wouldn't he know what to do? But they were both still, as if they couldn't quite believe the monster was speaking to them casually, even happily, as if the library never happened. "You should take Gracie up to the house now," Matthew told her softly, calmly.

She wanted to argue, not because she didn't trust Matthew but because she would no more abandon the man she loved with Sir Richard than she would leave him face to face with a snake. But Gracie's hand was in hers and there was no question where her, where their, priorities lay. She picked the little girl up, and Gracie even waved at the stranger, saying, "Bye! Bye!" Mary walked quickly over the lawn, as quickly as her legs could carry the two of them without panicking Gracie. She talked nonsense, to calm herself even more than Gracie. All she knew was that she had to get inside Downton. They would be safe there.

But a part of her, the part that kept the box safe, the very box with the lid the threatened to tremble open at any moment, knew even Downton could not keep her safe.

She turned her face into Gracie's curls, felt her daughter's small hand on her shoulder holding on, remembered the sound of that little voice murmuring, "Mama," and shoved the lid of that dreadful box shut with as much strength as she could muster.

* * *

><p>"Well, Lady Mary took off in quite a hurry," Richard remarked, laughing a little.<p>

Maybe it was Matthew's imagination, but Carlisle appeared even more sinister with the window casting a bit of a shadow on his face. "We're very busy," Matthew said shortly. He remembered Tom's warning, that no matter how badly he wanted to throttle this man, he was a husband and a father and he had to protect his girls first. "You have no business being at Downton, Carlisle."

"Last I checked, you're not Earl yet." Richard paused, savoring his victory. "In fact, Lord Grantham has invited us for dinner on a night of our choosing this week. I highly doubt, after such politeness, he would mind my wife and me taking a drive through the grounds."

It was almost more shocking to hear that Robert had invited Carlisle for dinner than to see the man in the first place. "I don't believe you," Matthew retorted.

"Well, you should believe me. My wife and I are opening Haxby this week and in a show of goodwill Lord Grantham invited us..."

"There will be no goodwill," Matthew said through his teeth, before turning on his heels and following in his wife's footsteps.

* * *

><p>When Mary reached the front door, Granny was exiting her car with the help of Mason. "Did you know that Sir Richard still owns Haxby Park?" Mary asked without preamble.<p>

Granny sighed. "I found out from Sir Richard. The reason I'm here is to give your father a good talking to for neglecting to tell any of us."

Mary leaned down to set Gracie down next to Granny. "Gracie Girl, you and Granny are going to find Robbie and Sybil and play, all right?" Standing, she took a breath and told Granny evenly, "Once you hand her off to Sybil, you may have words with Papa, but I'm having them first."

She found him in the library, thankfully the large library. He was reading a book when she came through the doors and barely spared her a glance. "Oh, hello Mary," he sighed, as if he hated to be interrupted. She walked straight to him, picked up the book, and threw it. "That was a first edition!" he cried.

The words seemed to erupt from her chest, as if they'd been waiting for years to be said. "Do you know who we met on the road just now? Sir Richard." The name was very nearly a snarl. "He informed me that he is reopening Haxby Park. How _dare_ you not inform me of this?" She wanted to pound on his chest, to just hit him until he held her and soothed her. It was such a strange feeling to be a daughter in front of him but also a mother with children and also...the woman lying in the small library.

"How was I suppose to inform you, Mary?" Robert asked, exasperated. "With the address I'd been given to contact you? I've had no way to tell you _anything _for years," he concluded bitterly.

"Oh, don't be sarcastic, Papa. It's never suited you. Don't you understand?" she realized her voice was rising, dangerously, and she could not remember whether she'd closed the doors behind her. "I shouldn't have to see him here! I can't have him near me or my daughter!" She stopped. She had to gain some degree of control. She could not make Gracie a part of this, not now, not when Papa had proven himself so completely untrustworthy. "You yourself counseled me against marrying him because he was blackmailing me–and now he is touring the grounds!"

"He is doing more than that," Matthew spoke up from behind her in a more quiet but just as angry tone. Granny stood with him as well. "Your father has invited him to dinner at a date of Carlisle's choosing."

Mary looked back at her father with horror. "How could you do this? How could..." her voice drained away and she had to sit down. "Do you hate me so much?" she whispered so quietly that no one heard her.

"Over the years, I'd written him and asked him to sell," Robert said calmly, his hands behind his back. "He would not agree. Recently, he phoned to say he was reopening Haxby, that he felt terribly about the way he'd acted, and that he wanted peace between our families. I told him I agreed to let bygones be bygones."

"You leave out an interesting detail, Robert," Granny said with deadly calm from the doorway. She lowered her voice even further, her tone bordering on venomous. "What was his response after you wrote to him and asked him to sell several times _for the good of the county_?" She paused as if waiting for an answer she knew would not be forthcoming. "He wrote back, didn't he, Robert? He said: _Send Mary to me and I'll think about it." _She huffed, pounded her stick into the ground several times. "Does that sound like a man who regrets the days gone by?"

Robert opened his mouth to reply, but Mary stood wearily, almost dizzily, from her seat. "There's no point, Granny. There's never been any point when it comes to Papa," she said weakly, and made her way out of the room.

"What I find so interesting, _Lord Grantham_," Matthew seethed, "is that you are quite willing to let bygones be bygones with...with _him,_" he said with disgust, "but not with your daughter who loves you. How very _honorable _of you to be so concerned with propriety." He hurried after Mary, alarmed by how fragile she appeared.

Violet stared at her son. "You have no idea what you have done, Robert. You have no idea whatsoever!"

For the first time, Robert showed real emotion. "Of course I have no idea," he spat bitterly. "Because no one has ever told me. All I know, Mama, is that Mary broke off her engagement from Sir Richard and he left in the night. For the next six weeks I watched my daughter...sleepwalk...through this house, through her _life_, as if she were a ghost. Then you read that...that ghastly letter where she stated she wanted nothing to do with us. I told Cora not to go to New York looking for her and she went anyway, against my wishes. When she came back, she said Mary was not there. Do you think I am an idiot? She was _lying. _But Mary didn't want us in her life so I left it alone. Months later," now he was nearly roaring, "I am handed a picture of my granddaughter and commanded by you to ask no questions of her parentage. Years later, the prodigal daughter returns home with this grandchild, married to Matthew, and as I hear from Cora, pregnant. Am I supposed to kill the fatted calf? So no, Mama, I don't have any idea what I have done because no one has ever told me _anything_!"

Violet stood with one hand delicately to her ear. He was speaking ever so loudly. "Do you think we did any of that to hurt you, Robert? Or to make sport of you? Do you think we were having a laugh at your expense? Really, Robert, use that giant head of yours. We were _protecting _Mary!" She turned to leave. She could not deal with such a buffoon of a man, even when he was her son. "You should try it sometime. Perhaps then you would be allowed into our confidences."

"From what?" Robert cried out to his mother's back. "What are you protecting her?"

Violet turned halfway toward him, not even giving him the dignity of her whole face. "From the very monster you've invited back into our lives."

And she left.

* * *

><p>Matthew caught up to Mary and took her elbow. "You need to lie down," he said gently. "Let me help you to your room upstairs."<p>

"Gracie?" she asked.

"She is with Sybil. I met your Granny outside and handed Gracie off to Sybil myself, with instructions not to leave Robbie's nursery. She's safe." He pressed a kiss to her temple and she trembled for a moment before continuing up the stairs.

"For now," she whispered. "I can't believe Papa would..."

"Mary," Matthew pleaded. "I know you are very angry with him. So am I. I know you are afraid. But please, just try, for a few moments to put it out of your head. You're as white as a sheet and you need to lie down." He pressed his free hand to her belly.

She squeezed her eyes shut. "I want to go back to New York, Matthew," she whispered.

He continued to help her up the long staircase, supporting more and more of her weight. "We'll go wherever you want. I promise. He can't touch you, I swear it."

"But he can," she whispered, gripping his arm. "The note, now Haxby. He always will be able to. A part of me will always be on the floor of that library. No matter where I go or what I do."

They'd reached the top. "Mary," he said gently. "Where is your room? I've never been there before."

She laughed a little at that, turning into him and burying her face in the collar of his coat. "Thank you, for what you said to Papa...I could hear from outside. And thank you for what I'm sure you said to..._him_."

"I wish I could do more," he replied, anguish filling his voice as he pressed his cheek to her hair.

"No." She held onto him tightly. "I don't want my husband or the father of my children in jail. And I don't want something awful on your conscience. He really isn't worth it." She lifted her face to press a soft kiss to his mouth. "My room is this way." She led him down the hallway.

She squeezed his hand. "Will you do me a favor if I promise to lie down? Will you go to Gracie and just...be with her? It will make me feel so much better."

"I'll do that if you let me send Sybil to you," he compromised, leading her to the bed, laying her on top of the coverlet, and wrapping a throw tightly around her.

"You know that means you will be watching both Gracie and Robbie, right?"

He smiled, kissed her brow. "It will give me practice for looking after two, won't it?"

It was only a few moments before Sybil quietly opened the door and padded over to her sister's bed to curl up beside her. She had seen the shadows underneath Matthew's eyes and knew something was wrong. But she also knew Mary. She could remember nights when they lay just like this, and she would wait (it seemed like forever) for Mary to tell her some secret about some suitor. And she was never disappointed; invariably, after Mary had enjoyed keeping her in suspense, she would gleefully spill everything to her eager listener.

And knowing Mary as she did, Sybil also instinctively knew that this was about nothing so happy as a new suitor. There would be no gleeful spilling of details.

Slowly Mary turned in her cocoon of blankets, so she and Sybil were lying face to face. "Sir Richard is reopening Haxby Park. We just saw him," she whispered. She knew she was crying because the pillow was wet. Sybil kept quiet; she could tell by the way Mary's throat was working silently, that she had more words to say, words she was having difficulty getting out.

Mary remembered asking Matthew in the library, _Why didn't I scream?_

"Sybil," Mary whispered brokenly, reaching for her sister's hand. She was surprised to see Sybil was crying too, even before her admission. "Sir Richard..." she had to close her eyes. "The night I broke things off with him, he..." She took a deep, shuddering breath, gripping Sybil's hand for strength as she told her sister the hard thing. "He raped me."

Then she was sobbing, her shoulders shaking, and Sybil was pulling her into her arms, holding her as the two of them rocked back and forth, both of them crying, their unborn babies between them. Sybil did not try to shush her or even comfort her beyond the tightening of her arms. She just held her sister for as long as it took–a very long time, as it turned out, to cry every tear that she'd never shed over the years she'd kept the secret. Opening the box that held Richard and the small library hurt dreadfully. But in her sister's arms, for the first time she felt as if she could lift the lid herself. She cried and cried and they rocked and rocked. After awhile, Mary's thoughts began to change: how good a mother Sybil must be, how good a nurse, how good a sister she was. She had never given Sybil enough credit.

She finally finished crying, but Sybil went on holding her, her arms so tight that Mary could almost believe that no one and nothing could touch her there.

At last, Sybil spoke. "I love you, you know. I always have and I always will. And I'll hate him forever for what he did to you. But I love _you._"

Sloppily, Mary wiped her face and lifted her head. "I love you too, Sybil. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

"Mary," she said, kissing her cheek, "there need not be any sorries between us."

Mary smiled. "You are the best of us."

"Now you're just being silly," Sybil replied. "And where did you get those trousers? I love them."

* * *

><p>Cora tried to convince them to stay for dinner but Matthew demurred, firmly. "Thank you, Cousin Cora, you know we cannot." He had a sleeping Gracie in his arms and was trying to keep a very tired Mary upright. "If I could ask a favor of you and borrow the chauffeur and the car?"<p>

"Of course," she murmured. "Of course, my dears." But the whole time they waited for the car she wrung her hands, as if she wished there was more for her to do, glancing between them and the library, where Robert remained.

When they arrived home, Mary pressed a kiss to Matthew's cheek. "Darling, I'm sorry. But I am exhausted..."

"Go to sleep," he interrupted. "Please. I can see how tired you are. I'll put this one to sleep."

Mary tried to smile. "In her own bed."

Later, when he did enter their room, she was already asleep, in one of her old nightgowns, burrowed as always. He smiled fondly and ran a hand down her back. She didn't stir.

Exhausted as he was, he knew he could not sleep. So he went to the desk, where he seemed to be going all too often these days, to escape today, and read his wife's words from before.

_Dear Granny,_

_Do you remember that man with the spotted dog? With the gray eyes? Well, last week, I received a letter from him_. _No, not really a letter. It was short note. It said that he'd gotten my address from my grandmother (yes, I am rolling my eyes) at some party. He'd mentioned this lovely woman he'd seen pushing a pram and that all he knew about her was her name: Lady Mary. _

_(I don't even know why I gave him my title in the first place. I never do that here.) _

_Grandmother said, "Oh! That's my granddaughter! You should call on her!" His note said that he didn't want to be too forward but he asked if the baby and I would like to go on another walk with him and his dog. He made a silly joke about having two chaperones and gave me a date and time. He said if I didn't come, he would understand. His note was signed "Andrew."_

_I thought I wouldn't go. I avoided Grandmother for days which is not so hard to do (Yes, you are rolling your eyes. I know how _fond _you two are of one another). But then the day came and I looked at Gracie and I said, "Darling! We are going to see a man and his dog." Then I went to get dressed in one of my black suits. Your words came back to me: "No one wants to kiss a girl in black." And Granny, I found myself reaching for this rose toned suit instead. Very smart looking. Very posh. It's not that I wanted to be kissed. I just wanted to be alive again._

_So we went for a walk. His dog's name is Sam. I told him about Papa's dogs, Pharaoh and then Isis. It was a very nice time. He walked me back to my door_ _and helped me with the pram. He took my hand in his, lightly, politely, and he asked if he could see me again._

_But I have a baby, I said._

_But I have a dog, he replied._

_He is very funny. We laughed quite a lot. We have plans for dinner next week and Mrs. Larsen has agreed to watch Gracie. Oh, I am so nervous to leave her. It will be the first time. To go to dinner with a man. _

_I can practically hear your delight across the ocean._

_Mary_

* * *

><p>While the letter did completely take his mind off the day's events, it did not exactly settle him. He shuffled the letters until he found the next one in chronological order.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Dearest Granny,<em>

_I cannot believe you airmailed your response and demanded I airmail mine back as well. Your letter is wrong, however: this is not the stuff of novels. I am not even sure it is a romance at all. Maybe we are just good friends, Andrew and Mary._

_Maybe not._

_(Oh, I can hear you crowing_ _with laughter)._

_When he came to the door, he said hello to Mrs. Larsen and Gracie. Grandmother was out. (Yes, you are rolling your eyes). Then as we went down the steps, he said: "We can go to either of two places. Master Andrew and Lady Mary can go to this very elegant, posh restaurant. Or Drew and Mary can go to a restaurant that no one has ever heard of but has the best food Drew has ever tasted." _

_I said: "Why don't Drew and Mary go eat some fabulous food?" He told me had a driver but if we were to be Mary and Drew we would take a Taxi Cab. I agreed_;_ of course Drew and Mary would take a cab. _

_Granny, he took me to this little Italian neighborhood, to a trattoria the size of my room at Downton. The tables rocked, the chairs were uneven. Christmas lights hung from the ceiling. A man was singing songs in Italian with an accordion. Drew asked: "Does Lady Mary approve?" _

_And I said: "Mary–or better yet, Maria–approves very much." And we laughed. We laughed a great deal together._

_He was right. The food was the best I've ever tasted. Then we did something so insane, so mad, I do hope you are sitting down. We shared gelato. Each with our own spoon._

_His eyes really are gray if you are wondering._

_Love,_

_Mary_

* * *

><p>Carlisle was the farthest thing from Matthew's mind as he shuffled quickly for the next letter.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Dear Granny,<em>

_Please stop with this airmail insistence. And no, I will not telegram you about the situation with Drew. Please. I am a grown woman_ _with a daughter, after all._

_He's held Gracie, just once. He looked adorably uncomfortable. She sat very still, trying to help the novice out._

_We go out once or twice a week. Sometimes I cut it short because I don't like to be away from Grace for too long. He says he understands. We are doing this new 1920's thing called dating._

_He makes me laugh._

_His eyes really are gray._

_He still hasn't asked who Grace's father is. He doesn't seem to want to ask after Grace at all, really._

_He kisses me on the cheek now, when he walks me to my door. Sometimes I consider turning my head but I haven't yet. _

_I'm shy, though I have no virtue to protect._

_He makes me laugh. Grace makes me so happy. My life would be incomplete without her...but I forgot what it was like to have a man make you laugh. Maria liked it._

_Yours,_

_M_

* * *

><p>Matthew shook his head and ruefully looked over his shoulder at his sleeping wife. He did not like this. He did not like this one bit. He knew he'd had someone in the years between each other, but reading that she had, too, was not pleasant. Yet, he had to read the next letter. He had to know...<p>

* * *

><p><em>Dear Granny,<em>

_I am only sending this airmail because..._

_he kissed me._

_And I knew that if I sent this the normal way and you read that first line, you would cross the ocean just to smack me. Maybe you're already booking your ticket since I didn't _telegram _you. Drew and Mary kissed. STOP._

_We didn't talk engagement. That's not what dating is. We just kissed. It was nice, sweet._

_The other day we went on another one of our walks, Drew, Sam, Gracie, and me. He said, "You make me happy." It was the strangest thing because in my experience being with a man does not make one happy. For example, Matthew and I. I would, upon consideration, consider that a great love but do you know how absolutely miserable we made each other? How sad it was? It was like being torn apart. With pockets of bliss. But those pockets _were_ blissful._

_I ended things with Drew though, Granny. He held Grace again and he said, "I'm sorry–I'm just not that good with children," smiling his little smile. And I asked, "Well, are you willing to learn?" He said, very gently, "Mary, my nanny raised me. I don't know how to be a father. If I have children, a nanny will probably raise them." _

_I took Grace from him and held her in my arms. I told Drew that I had had a lovely time getting to know him, that he had been so good to me (because he had been, truly) but that this could not go on. His gray eyes were sad. "Can't you be flexible on this, Mary? Can't we compromise? You must know how I feel about you and that I see a future with you in it."_

"_And Gracie?" I asked. "Can you see a future with her in it? Because I can't be flexible about this. I can't compromise this."_

_He brought me flowers the next day, as if flowers could fix this problem between us. Peonies. Gorgeous. I told him only, "It's not a fight, Drew, it's a complete incompatibility of lifestyles. I am a mother first, last, and always. I can't be what you want and you can't be what I want."_

_He put his arms around me and I allowed it because this was to be our goodbye. I could feel his nose in my hair. "But Sam," he murmured into my ear. "Sam will be just heartbroken."_

_That was the moment I knew I would be alone the rest of my life, romantically speaking._

_I could tell I'd hurt him, that I might even have broken his heart, Drew with the gray eyes. I can never love a man who does not love Grace as I do so I can never love a man._

_Sorry to disappoint but an engagement is most definitely not on the horizon. And besides, do you remember that _beauty mark _I wrote to you about once before? The one I told you never to mention? Well, it's still there, you see. It's small, but it's always there. I can't get rid of it, you know._

_Love,_

_Mary and Grace_

Matthew sat back in his chair and refolded the letters. He wasn't happy over what he had read; he was mostly unreasonably jealous. But the last letter completely calmed him, made it seem silly even: she could never love anyone who did not love Grace and that beauty mark, however small she wanted it to be, was always there, reminding her of him.

* * *

><p>Mary woke in the middle of the night and almost reached out a hand for Matthew. She stopped at the last moment before her finger touched his skin. Instead, she went to the bathroom and changed into the nightgown he'd picked. It was black and floor-lengthed, with a daring slit to her hip and skinny straps one could barely see. Then she walked back to the bedroom, drew the covers off of him, and stretched out on top of him, black silk to bare skin.<p>

He came awake immediately, his arms automatically encircling her. "Granny always said that no man wanted to kiss a girl in black," she whispered into his ear, her breath warm. "Do you want to kiss a girl in black?"

His hands slid deliciously up the silk, caressing her through it, touching her bare back, barely brushing the sides of her breasts, until he cradled her face in his hands, bringing her lips to his. He lingered over her lips as he hadn't in weeks. She moaned when he sucked on her bottom lip, even longer than usual, then nipped it and soothed it with his tongue. Then their tongues were tangling and he was rolling them over so she lay beneath him, her hair spread all around them. She slid one leg through the slit in her nightgown (how convenient!) and wrapped it around his hip to hold him to her. His hand grasped her ankle briefly, dragging downwards until he could reach her hip and hold her body closer to his. All the while they kissed, as if it were the first or the last time, the most important time. Her arms twined around his neck and she nibbled a bit on his top lip. When he kissed his way to her throat, to suck and pleasure her there, his hand moving up and down her bare thigh, she thought: _here. finally. _

He slid the thin straps from her shoulders with gentle fingers and touched his mouth there, his hand gripping that bare thigh. He nibbled at her clavicle, sucked at the hollow of her throat, remaining there for a long time, taking and giving every bit of pleasure he could, before she began to moan and press herself up against him, her fingers in his hair.

So his hands came up again, pulling the silk down further, exposing her breasts. She might have warned him that they were more tender than usual but he was so gentle, overlapping kisses to cover every bit of her, curling his tongue over her nipples, before finally suckling softly. She groaned, her hands now gripping his hair. "Oh, Matthew," she whispered, the first words spoken between them.

With her her hands and then her toes, she pushed his pajama pants down as far as she could. He pushed them off completely, then drew the silk of her nightgown down even further, exposing her belly to him. For a moment, he pressed his face there, collecting himself, while her fingers slid through his hair. He kissed her belly button, held his lips there for a long time. Sometimes his lips moved, as if he were speaking, but whatever he said was for the baby's ears alone before he eventually finished undressing her completely.

Finally they were skin to skin, and his mouth was back at her throat, her legs wrapped around his hips. "I've missed you," she murmured.

"I love you," he breathed against her neck. He seemed content not to rush and although a part of her was screaming for him to hurry, hurry, hurry, her heart was turning over in her chest. As if he knew it, he pressed a quiet kiss to her left breast. "I love you," he repeated, raising his head to look into her eyes.

She arched up against him to pull him even closer. She could feel him, hot and hard, against her center, how he wanted her–and she wanted him. She rubbed herself along the length of him and he groaned, closing his eyes against the pleasure of it, his breath against her neck. She did it again, longer this time, and he groaned again, his voice deep and hoarse until she swallowed the sound with her mouth, their tongues stroking one another, even as she stroked herself against him for a third time. This time even her mouth could not contain the sounds he made. His hands cupped her hips as he slid into her and she moaned, raising her hands above her to grasp at the headboard for a moment, before lowering them and clinging to his back.

He filled her so completely, as he always did, and settled against her for a moment, sucking on her bottom lip until she panted and arched against him and he began to move. His strokes were languid and slow, just as everything else had been so far, his mouth pressing hot kisses against every part of her face, neck, and shoulders he could reach. "Matthew," she whispered, gripping his back with her fingernails, and he jolted and sped up just the tiniest bit, just enough so that it was still torturous, with him inside her, with all this wanting inside her.

He pushed the hair back from her face and kept his hands there, cradling her face. He kissed her once, twice, always moving, slowly, deeply. "Go over," he murmured. "I want to watch you go over." He sped up again, and she closed her eyes against the _need, _the _want _that was building inexorably inside her. "Look at me," he asked, and she opened her eyes to look directly into his. They were the bluest she'd ever seen them, and so full of love for her that when he said again, "I want to watch you go over," she moaned, much too loudly, then cried out, even more loudly, trying to watch his eyes the whole time as she felt herself shatter, then fall. He moved inside her for a few seconds longer, his eyes open and on hers, then groaned deeply, his entire body quaking with the force of his release, before falling on top of her, catching himself on his forearms and rolling them instantly so none of his weight fell on her.

Per usual, he leaned his head back, his eyes closed, unable to think, hardly able to breathe.

She curled into him and slid down his body so her cheek rested on his sweaty stomach. "Matthew," she whispered. His only response was to lift a hand and stroke it over her hair. "Matthew," she repeated, raising her head and pressing kisses to his chest and then his chin, his nose, his eyes, his forehead. "Matthew," she murmured. "I already want you again."

He grunted. It was the only response he was capable of while she went on pressing quick kisses to his face, urging him to respond. "Darling," he implored. "I need a moment."

"That's all right," she agreed, purring like a cat when his hand slid from the back of her neck, down her back, to her thigh. "That was incredible. You're incredible. I love you."

He smiled, his eyes opening just the slightest bit, so she could see a sliver of icy blue. "It _was _incredible. Beyond incredible. But Mary, I still need a moment before the encore."

She kissed him, pushing back his sweaty hair, sucking on his bottom lip until he groaned and gripped her hips. "Whatever you say, darling," she whispered back in the dark, taking his lip into her mouth again.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: So...no cliffhanger. But still a lot to digest. Richard. Talking. to. Gracie. Robert and Mary's discussion. Robert and Matthew's brief exchange. And of course, the lovely shrinking Violet's full on attack of Robert. Mary opening up to Sybil. Then how about those letters? Doesn't Drew sound like a nice man? Don't you just want to find him a nice lady friend with a dog instead of child? Finally the end. I'm sure URMYSTICK is happy. :) xx Please review, lovelies. <em>


	25. Chapter 25

_Author's Note: Hello! I must thank Faeyero for being the best beta. Also thank you all for the crazy, insightful, challenging (in a good way), question filled reviews. I love them. Just one quick thing to go over about the story up to this point. The only people who know that Grace is a product of the small library are **Cora, Granny, and Matthew. **The people who know that the small library took place are **Isobel & Sybil. **Tom only knows that Sir Richard "hurt" Mary, which was enough for him to hate the man forever. I am not claiming that Isobel or Sybil have not put two and two together. But I just want to be clear that disclosing the rape and disclosing Sir Richard's role in Grace's life are two very different things. The only reason I am making a big deal about is that to **Mary**_, _they are two very different things. xx_

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><p>Chapter Twenty Five<p>

Waking up naked, wrapped around each other, Mary's damned cold toes against his calf, felt strangely luxurious. He was surprised she hadn't awakened sick yet and he considered pressing his luck to see if she would be interested in a morning repeat of last night. But then he heard "Papa! Papa!" from the next room.

"She's calling for you," Mary murmured without shame, sleepily, as she rolled over. "I can't help it if she wants her papa."

He leaned down to kiss her lips. "You know that won't work with this one, right?" he grinned, resting his hand against her belly. "He or she won't be able to say _Papa_ for quite awhile." She smiled sleepily at him and turned back over to burrow beneath her pillow.

He was so bleary eyed from lack of sleep (first staying up to read the letters about _that _man and then because his wife wouldn't give him a moment's peace, which was perfectly all right with him) that he caught himself nearly walking out of the room naked. He grabbed a pair of pants and slid his arms into his unbuttoned shirt before heading down the hall to their daughter's room. When he returned to bed not two minutes later, Mary let out an exhausted grunt. "Where's Grace?"

"Cousin Violet came by to see Mother after yesterday's happenings. Mother said after all the drama we should have a lie in and that she was perfectly happy and perfectly capable of watching her granddaughter for a few hours," he murmured, pressing kisses up her back, moving her hair off the back of her neck as he went. She was waking up now, only half-reluctantly.

She purred, then moved a little bit away from him to glare out of one eye. "Your mother is not our nanny."

"Mary," he begged, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. "She offered to give us _hours _to sleep...and be together." He paused and she went still. "Besides, don't you think they should have some bonding time?" he wheedled.

She rolled over towards him, one of her legs sliding between his, eyes still closed, voice still fuzzy. "You're very clever, you know."

"Well, then, let your _clever_ husband point out something he noticed," he said, leaning down to kiss her once more. "You haven't been sick yet this morning. Maybe we've found the cure." He smirked at her.

She pinched his side. "I don't think I'm going to be sick, cure or no cure. My stomach doesn't feel perfect but much better than any other morning. And it's because I'm farther along in the pregnancy, you dolt, just like the doctor said. It was the same last time."

"Do you want me to get you something? Tea? Toast?" he asked, stroking his hand lightly over her belly.

"Mmm...You can take off your clothes and get back in bed, if you really want to do something for me," she grinned, her eyes still closed.

"Are you sure you're even awake?" he asked, removing his shirt.

"I can tell you are," she murmured, sliding the leg between his a little higher to feel him waiting and heavy.

"Do you think–you know the doctor said you need to be comfortable," he began, brushing kisses along her collarbone.

"He meant, in a very polite way, that when I am hugely fat, we might need to get creative in how we...mmm" she murmured, as he nibbled the hollow of her throat. He shifted his weight for better access. "Ouch!" she cried, and he started upright.

"What? What? Are you all right?"

"No, I'm fine," she soothed. "It's just...my breasts are a little tender. That happened before, too. Maybe you could just have a little more care with them than usual, all right?"

As if in apology, he pressed a soft kiss to first her right and then her left breast. "Speaking of, you know what I noticed last night?" Gently he took her breasts in his hands, cradling them while he continued to brush his lips over them.

"What?" she asked, breathing a bit more heavily at his touch.

"They were lovely before but it seems as if they've...blossomed a bit." He grinned wickedly at her for a moment before laying down a series of open mouthed kisses between her breasts, then up the slope of one and then the other.

"Yes," she sighed. "Every part of me is getting fatter."

"No," he shook his head definitely. "Not every part of you. Just these." He held her breasts and then lowered his head to press a kiss to her stomach, which indeed was starting to protrude a bit. "And I didn't say they were getting fatter. I said they were _blossoming_," he corrected.

"I just don't understand how this could make me _more _attractive to you." She blew out a long breath, but did not stop his ministrations, only ran her hand through his hair.

"Because I love you. Because I love that we made this baby." He leaned up, his weight on his forearms, to suck on her lip. "And I suppose, there is some part of me, deep down, that..."

"That what?"

"That is proud that...I did this to you...that I could do this to you. Perhaps it's a man thing."

She smiled at him, her eyes slits. "All right. Are you going to have your way with me or should I go back to sleep?"

"Pregnancy has made you quite demanding," he noted as his hands caressed her sides, moving downwards, then slid between her thighs.

Mary was having difficulty catching her breath but managed to pant, "you've known me too long to blame it on the pregnancy." The last word was spoken directly into his mouth.

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><p>A little while later, both of them sweaty and clinging to one another, she pressed a kiss to his jaw. "I love you, you know," she said, looking down at him. "Even when I am acting like a crazy person. Or crying."<p>

He didn't understand how she could even think of having a serious conversation when all of his brain cells felt scrambled by the feel of her still pulsing around him, but he was wise enough not to say so. "I love you too, darling," he managed.

She was nearly asleep, her cheek pressed to his chest, by the time he had his wits about him again. "So...I was reading some of your letters last night."

"Uh huh," she murmured sleepily.

"And I came across this bundle about Andrew or should I call him Drew...?"

Her eyes opened but she didn't move. "Oh? Granny kept those in there? Remind me to to hurt her."

"They were very interesting to me," he continued, his tongue in his cheek. "_Oh Drew and his gray eyes and his dog, Sam, and his laugh, and the gelato, and the kissing_," he mocked.

"I want to make two very important points about that whole situation," she said, her cheek to his chest, her fingers drawing lazy circles on his belly.

"Oh?" he asked, lifting his head enough to see just a hint of her smile.

"Yes. The first point is, I am lying here with _you. _And I never came close to lying like this with him. Not even close. We kissed. Once. Maybe twice."

"Oh, you mean, with _Drew, with the gray eyes, and the laugh_?" he asked.

"Don't be jealous, darling," she murmured. "I'm about to make my second point."

"Oh?" he repeated.

She pressed an openmouthed kiss to his chest, her nails just gently touching him, then another, then another, further and further down, her nails grazing against his skin, until she had to push the covers back. She licked around his belly button. She nibbled at his hipbones. Then she made his eyes cross.

Eventually, they slept. They had to. Or they would die.

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><p>It was lucky indeed that she was already mostly dressed when Isobel knocked on the door and announced that the Countess of Grantham was waiting for her daughter downstairs. Though Matthew had quite literally been trying to convince her to throw up her skirts for one last go of it, Mary pushed him away. "I love you," she said. "You know that I do. And I know that you love me. But we both also know that we still haven't talked about yesterday. I know I mentioned going back to New York..."<p>

"Mary," he kissed her. "I meant it when I said I would do whatever you wished."

"That's not helping," she complained. "We need to _talk_ about it. We need to decide what is best for all of us: you, me, Gracie, and this baby. We need to make this decision _together_. And my mother is down there and she's going to beg me to forgive my father and she'll probably cry and you and I haven't talked at all!"

"Please don't cry," he pleaded.

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Matthew, but I am carrying your child, which makes me emotional, and I can't help it. I know we are good at _this_..." she sniffed, gesturing to the bed with its rumpled sheets. "It's an important part of our marriage and I wouldn't have it any other way. And I know I can count on you to be a good father. I know that I can lean on you. I trust you completely. We're good lovers, and good parents to Grace. But you and I...we are still not good at _talking with one another_."

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><p>It went nearly exactly as she had predicted once she went downstairs. Cora had come, teary eyed and full of apologies...on Robert's behalf, and with an invitation for dinner.<p>

"Mama," Mary shook her head. "I know you feel badly for the way things happened, but..."

"But Mary," Cora held out her hands to her eldest daughter. "Your father's right in a way. How can we blame him for doing something like this when he was and continues to be in the dark?"

Mary withdrew her hands from Cora's. "Are you suggesting I...tell him about–Sir Richard?"

"I...I do believe that maybe...I think it would only be fair to your father." She pressed her lips together.

Mary set her chin, suddenly angry. "You know what I don't think is fair, Mama? That not only did I have to endure what happened in that library but I am forced to relive it by telling it to people. Why isn't my word enough for him when I say I cannot see _that man_? But it isn't. Not for Papa. It never has been. He's never fought for me. Not for the entail..."

"Oh, must we go back to that? Now, when it's all settled?" Cora wheedled.

"It's only _settled_," Mary hissed, "because Matthew and I fell in love. Papa played no part in that. And yes, we must go back to it because the fact remains that something has been broken between Papa and me for a long time."

"Oh, Mary–what can I say?" Cora pleaded, her eyes blinking wetly. "What can I do to fix this?"

"It isn't for you to fix." Mary turned away from her mother. "I think Matthew and I might go to Manchester. He can practice law there. Or even back to New York and figure some things out. We haven't decided but I don't know if we can stay here."

"Mary." Cora began to cry. "Please, please don't. I've just gotten you back. I've just _met _Gracie and the _baby_ you're carrying..."

"What do you suggest, Mama? Should I remain here where I can run into Sir Richard anytime, even at my childhood home?"

Cora spotted Matthew at the top of the stairs, debating whether to break up the conversation or give them privacy. "Matthew," Cora cried. "Come to dinner tonight. Help me to fix things between Robert and Mary."

Matthew took in his wife's stance, her crossed arms, her raised chin. "I'm sorry, Cousin Cora, but I would need to discuss that invitation with Mary before I could accept." Mary smiled briefly. _Well, it's a start. _

"Besides, Mama," Mary she continued, "you would need to check and see if Papa has invited any other _guests_."

"I know he has not because they are coming tomorrow." Cora wrung her hands as Mary turned around to face her. Matthew came down the stairs to urge his enraged wife into a sitting position.

"So you're going to..." Mary choked on her words, "sit across the table from...that man...?"

"What am I to do, Mary? Your grandmother flatly refuses to join us. I invited Isobel as well, and she was not very kind in refusing. Now I hear from Sybil that she and Tom and Robbie will be having dinner at Crawley house that night because she would not want..." Cora paused (this was news to Mary but good news nonetheless). "Oh, I can't repeat what she said of that man. Then Edith is back on bed rest. So tell me: what I am to do?"

"Not have him at all!" Mary sobbed. _Oh, baby, _she thought, placing a protective hand on her belly, _can't you leave me some dignity?_

"I think you should go now, Cousin Cora," Matthew said, leaving no room for any more questions. She did as he asked, leaving in tears.

Matthew sat next to Mary on the divan, as closely as possible, his arm around her. "Let's talk it out," he murmured to her temple. "Let's say all the hard things."

She turned into him, sliding her arm around his waist. "Do you think I'm being completely unreasonable about this? That I should just tell Papa?"

Matthew closed his eyes, pressing his lips to her hair. "Oh, Mary. I wish I had an answer for you. If you tell Robert what happened, he will keep Sir Richard from you. But...I completely understand your reticence to do so."

Try as she might, should could not prevent the tears from leaking out. "When...when I tell it, it's like it's happening all over again."

"Oh, Mary." He lifted her legs, putting them over his legs, and wrapped his arms around her waist, so that she was in his lap. He rocked her and the comfort she felt was the same that Sybil had given the night before with her ever tightening arms. They were quiet for a long time, with a few sniffles to break up the silence.

"What if," Matthew began, stroking her face, "I speak with your father, man to man. I won't reveal anything, Mary. But I'll make it clear to him that, unless he banishes Carlisle from Downton, he risks losing a relationship with you and me and his grandchildren."

"He doesn't really have a relationship with me or Gracie or even you to lose. Not anymore."

"Well." Matthew kissed her cheek, the side of her nose. "Maybe we should go to dinner tonight, a little earlier than usual. You could talk to your Papa beforehand about rebuilding a relationship with him, about building one with Grace, and explain that you aren't comfortable taking him into your confidence unless those two things change."

She pressed her face to his neck. "I know I say it often but you are a very intelligent man."

"For a middle-class solicitor from Manchester?"

"_Upper-_middle class," she corrected automatically, and then they were laughing.

* * *

><p>Mary had a brief breakdown when trying to fit in to any of the dresses which were appropriate for dinner at Downton. She was nearly in tears when finally the last one fit, Matthew pulling with all his strength to close it. But when she stepped in front of the mirror, she threw up her hands. "I look fat."<p>

"No, darling," he replied as patiently as possible. "You look pregnant. Remember what Dr. George said, that you would begin to _show _earlier since..."

She gave him a hateful look and he quieted.

Isobel offered to stay home with Gracie, who would be in bed just as dinner started anyway. "But you aren't our nanny," Mary told her rather passionately. "This shouldn't be your responsibility."

Isobel took Mary's hands. "It isn't a responsibility but a pleasure to spend time with my granddaughter. And I am happy to play a part in helping to heal your relationship with your father. And you, my dear," she squeezed Mary's hands, "need to learn how to ask for help."

Matthew concealed his smirk and carefully looked at the ceiling so no one could read his expression at his mother's words.

Cora had sent the car for them and they held hands in the back seat. He knew she would not want to speak in front of the chauffeur but as soon as they stepped out, he brought her hand to his mouth. "It will be fine," he assured her.

"It's so strange," she said softly, as they walked towards the front door, even as Carson, beloved Carson opened it for them, "to be going to dinner at the house I grew up in."

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><p>The rest of the family waited in the sitting room while Mary and Robert walked to the large library to speak. He'd suggested the small library, since it was only the two of them. But she'd only shook her head, pressed her lips together, before speaking: "I can't go in there, Papa." To that, he made no comment, her shoes the only sound on their journey to the large library. Finally, they sat across from one another on opposing sofas.<p>

"Papa," Mary began, wetting her lips. "I know you are very angry at me for a number of things–for leaving, for keeping things from you. A part of me wants to tell you everything...but it is difficult, especially when things are so strained between us."

"Mary," Robert replied. "You must know that I do not desire for our relationship to be like this."

"Nor do I," Mary agreed. "But I cannot...there are parts of the story I cannot explain while things are this way between us, between you and Matthew, and...especially between you and Gracie."

"Grace?" he asked, taken aback. "What does she have to do with any of this?"

"Only everything." Mary pressed her lips together to keep the tears from her eyes and shook her head. "I know this doesn't make sense to you but it's the truth...What is she to you, Papa?"

"My granddaughter," he replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Really?" Mary asked, her lips trembling. "Even though you don't know the circumstances of her birth? You think of her the same way as Robbie or Edith's unborn child?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He shook his head, frustrated just as much by her question as by himself.

"Do you love her?" A single tear trickled down her cheek, her hands pressed hard to her own knees.

"I don't know her." The words were filled with frustration. "She seems like a nice little girl; she looks a great deal like you, but I don't _know_ her."

"Do you think you could get to know her?" she asked quietly.

Robert stood, completely exasperated by the conversation. "She's one and a half years old, Mary. How do you get to know a one and a half year old child?"

Mary stood as well. Clearly, their conversation was over. "Well, those are my terms, and Matthew's as well. I will confide in you–_everything _from the past three years–when you can say that you love Gracie,_ just as she is_."

Just as their conversation reached this end, there was a commotion in the hall outside the doors of the library. Mary followed behind her father's formidable steps to see what the problem could be.

She was shocked to see Sir Richard and his wife, Marianne, standing in the entry. Perhaps more surprising still was Lady Carlisle's appearance. In coloring she was very similar to Mary–her features were dark, her skin very pale–but she was tiny, clinging to her husband's arm, as if a strong wind might blow her away. Her fragile neck appeared to be the size of Mary's wrist. Mary had never been so aware of her pregnancy, the fact that she was _showing _in this dress, her breasts blooming out of it.

_He's everywhere,_ she realized, and it wasn't as frightening of a thought as it would have once been but more of a sad joke.

_He's everywhere and he does whatever he pleases. Here. Now. In the small library. Always in the small library doing whatever he pleases._

Half of the family had come out of the drawing room as soon as they'd heard Sir Richard greeting Carson as if he were an old friend. Matthew walked to Mary and took her elbow.

"We should leave," he whispered into her ear. Mary nodded.

"Sir Richard," Robert spoke loudly across the hall. "I thought we settled on tomorrow for dinner."

"Oh," Sir Richard gently slapped his hand against his thigh, as if he were completely flummoxed. "I must have confused the dates. We'll go; don't worry."

"No, no," Granny stated firmly shaking her stick at him, stepping towards the door. "The rest of us shall go. I believe we could all do with some fresh air; the stink in here is intolerable." Without any further explanation Tom, who gave Carlisle a very menacing look, and Sybil, who carried a very sleepy Robbie in her arms, followed her out into the night.

"Lady Mary," Sir Richard called before she could pass him, and she was forced to meet his eye. She hadn't even done that in the small library. _You can be anywhere, _she'd told herself, _you can be anything. _She hadn't looked him in the eye but now she did. "I hoped to introduce you to my wife, Marianne. I believe you two would have a great deal in common."

Later, Mary would not know why she did it, why she just didn't turn on her heel and walk away. She didn't owe him anything, of course. But as she looked at Lady Carlisle, the woman who could be her younger, skinnier, perhaps more sickly sister, with her scared rabbit eyes, Mary felt only sympathy. _I've escaped and she has not. _Their eyes met and Mary reached out a gloved hand to the woman. "It's very nice to meet you," Mary said simply. To her ears, her voice sounded hollow but not unkind.

"It's so nice to meet you as well," Marianne replied softly, still holding onto Lady Mary's glove. "My husband has told me so much about you."

On a sharp, shocked inhale, Mary removed her hand from the woman's grasp. Marianne looked perplexed, biting her lip, wondering what she had done or said wrong. "If you'll excuse us," Lady Mary said gently, and with her husband's arm around her moved to the door.

"We hope to see you again, Lady Mary," Sir Richard announced loudly. It was a complete breach of protocol to address a married woman in such a way without mention of her husband as well (not that he'd ever been good with protocol in the first place) but Mary and Matthew continued through the door without turning back. Tom, on the other hand, did turn, his hands in fists, his face angry. Matthew grabbed his arm, turning his brother-in-law so he would continue down the path.

"But..." Cora cried to her family as they left.

Robert gave Sir Richard an appraising look. He knew what day they'd set. And it was suddenly very clear to Robert that it wasn't just Mary who refused to be near this man in any capacity, but the whole of his family. Even Cora turned a particular shade of green when she had to take Sir Richard's hand, though she let go as soon as possible and claimed a headache halfway through dinner, leaving him alone with his unwanted guests.

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><p><em>Author's Note: So the most beloved character of the story strikes again...Thoughts?<em>


	26. Chapter 26

_Author's Note: Must thank Faeyero for her help on this one, in more ways than one, of course. I don't think I have anything to say other than that. Strange. xx_

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><p>Chapter Twenty Six<p>

Their party walked towards Crawley House in a strangely jolly mood, despite the circumstances. It was as though their combined walk-out at Downton Abbey had united them in one purpose, a merry band of thieves.

"Is this why you were always so attracted to those political rallies?" Granny asked Sybil as she strutted along, stabbing her walking stick into the ground with fierce joy at every step. "I never knew rebellion could be so–invigorating!"

Meanwhile, Tom tried to convince Sybil into letting him carry a drowsy Robbie. "Would you just let me take him?"

"I'm perfectly capable of carrying our child, Tom," she replied, without sparing him a glance, though sweat beaded on her forehead.

"That's just it," he said gently, stopping her with a hand on her arm. "You're carrying _both_ of our children. Sybil, _please,_" he said, casting a glance at her grandmother. "Do you want your grandmother to think I have no class at all?"

She glared at him but did as he asked, because her back was aching already. "How long have you been saving that one up, Tom?"

"There's more where that came from. I'm a writer, you know," he intoned, and Violet chuckled. "Besides, you're all about equality, aren't you, Mrs. Branson? Now I've got one and you've got one." She grinned at him. _More where that came from, indeed._

Matthew and Mary walked behind their group of supporters. "I can't believe that happened," Mary murmured in awe, Matthew's arm around her. "I don't mean Sir Richard–I can believe anything of _him_. But for everyone to just...get up and leave. Just like that." She smiled, a little teary. Somehow, all these people walking, no parading down the street in front of her meant more to her than anything Carlisle had said or done that night.

She would never regret protecting Grace for the first years of her life, not even for discovering she had the strength to do it alone. But it was _so _good to know that all of these people on this street would stand for her–for both of them–even if it meant standing in front of them. It was so good to know that, after all their concerns before returning from New York, she and Matthew were no longer alone in this. For the first time since receiving Richard's note, she did not feel like the girl in the small library.

He kissed her temple. "They love you," he said simply.

"The bigger question is: what are we going to do with them when we get home? They're probably starving."

"Oh," Matthew replied. "I imagine Mrs. Byrd will think of think something."

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><p>Somehow, Mrs. Byrd managed a loaves-and-fishes transformation of a meal for three, providing a very hearty dinner for them all. Robbie shared Gracie's crib, the two toddlers just fitting until his parents were ready to leave what had become a rather lighthearted dinner party, all things considered. Sybil rolled her eyes over the fact that they had to return to Downton, promising they would hurry right up the stairs and not even say hello if the <em>guests <em>were still there. She pressed a kiss to Mary's cheek. "I–we love you very much, you know." Mary smiled. She did know.

After everyone had left, including an energized Granny–who was still crowing about "the look on _that man's _face when we all walked out on him! It was very rude, my dear, but quite satisfying!"–Mary found herself tempted to go into the nursery and wake Gracie up, just to rock her back asleep again. She even placed her hand flat on the door. "Mary," Matthew whispered, pressing a single kiss to the back of her neck. "Let her sleep."

Still later, when they were in their own bed, he turned to her, placed his hand on her belly, and rubbed, just like Gracie did. "I've been thinking about what you said earlier. How we are very good at some things but that we could use some practice when it comes to saying or talking about the hard things." He leaned his forehead onto her shoulder. "You must know that you are not the only one who struggles in this area."

She turned her head to smile against his forehead. "Oh, Matthew–meaningful conversation isn't a strong suit for either of us, and together...it took us ten years to finally marry. We're quite a pair, aren't we?" He chuckled a little against her skin which, combined with his ministrations to her belly, made her want to purr. "But I was emotional when I spoke earlier...Don't grin at me like that," she commanded before going on. "I think we're getting better."

"But there is always room for improvement," he pointed out, kissing her shoulder. "So I will ask you, speaking of hard things: how did the conversation with your father go?"

She rolled her eyes. "Better–and worse–than I expected. I asked him how he thought of Grace and he said as a granddaughter. But when I pressed the issue it became clear that because of his _uncertainty _over her parentage, he does not think of her in the same way as his other grandchildren."

"Oh, Mary," he sighed. He grieved for her; he grieved for Grace. And he was more than a little angry. He knew what Downton meant to Robert; the man had waxed poetic about it often enough. He would do _anything _for the estate. But he would not do _anything_ for his family. "Since I met Grace and I became a father...it has become increasingly difficult for me to understand Robert's choices and feelings when it comes to you or even when it comes to Sybil and her family." She turned in his arms, their noses nearly touching. "I would do anything for you, for Grace, or for this baby."

"I know," she murmured, winding her arms around his neck. "I have known, since our first few days in New York."

"Do you still want to go back?" he asked.

She shook her head. "After tonight, I'm not sure. Just seeing everyone supporting us...I would like very much for both our children, for _all _our children to grow up knowing our family. Even if their grandfather is not included in that group. But of course that also depends on Sir Richard's behavior."

"What can I do?" He leaned his forehead against hers in the dark room. "What can I do to make this better for you?"

She could have cried at this, yet another gift she had been given tonight, but managed to keep her tears brimming in her eyes (for once). "You're doing it," she whispered and leaned forward to kiss him gently. But then, as always it seemed, somehow the kiss became something else altogether, stringing out, lingering, until their lips were swollen and full from one another.

"I love you," he told her, between kisses, his hands coming up to cradle her face, as if it were something precious.

She moved even closer to him. "And I love you."

* * *

><p>When Matthew awoke, he was gripping the edge of the mattress to keep from falling out, because Mary was sprawled across the expanse of the bed and pressed against his side as tightly as she could manage. "Mary," he murmured, kissing her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, her chin. "Mary." In defense, she scrunched her nose and turned her face away from him, though her limbs remained entangled with his. "Mary," he repeated, taking the arm which sometime in the night she'd flung against his chest, and pressing kisses all along it. She wiggled a little, which only made him more determined. "How do you feel?"<p>

"Sleepy," she grumbled from the place where she'd hidden her face, beneath one of the pillows.

"Are you...comfortable?" he asked, walking his fingers down her arm and then down her back.

"Yes," she said hoarsely. "I'm supremely comfortable because I am _sleeping_."

"But are you sick?" he asked, pressing kisses to her hair and face.

"I'm sleeping," she repeated, stubbornly and drowsily, turning on her back and thwacking her pillow with a fist before burying her face in it. He noticed, however, that she pressed her backside firmly against him and _wiggled _(hadn't that been one of their rules before they married) before she gave a little sigh, with every appearance of wanting to return to slumber.

He smiled, sliding his fingers beneath her nightgown and sliding them up her thigh as he began to drag slow, open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder and neck. She purred a little and arched her neck to give him better access, and he grinned, sliding his fingers around and up, caressing her for a moment until she shifted her legs to give him better access. Then he slid his hand down to her thigh to give it a nice firm pat. "Well if you're sleeping...I'll let you sleep."

She rolled over immediately, her loosened hair curtaining their faces from the rest of the world, purposefully sliding her breasts up onto his chest, and pushing her hand through his hair to kiss him deeply. He pulled her more firmly atop him, her legs sliding to bracket his hips, both of them hot and ready, but not quite ready to surrender either. "You think you're so smart," she accused, her eyebrow winging up.

"You keep telling me so," he replied. "And you must be right because now," he reared up to suck on her bottom lip and she groaned, grinding herself against him in reaction, moaning at the feel of the kiss and of him between her legs, "you're exactly where I want you."

"Oh?" she asked, panting. "And if I were to roll over and go back to sleep? What then?"

"You won't," he retorted confidently, his thumbs gently brushing against her nipples. She groaned and rubbed herself along the length of him, making them both ache.

"Are you sure?" she breathed as he made short work of his nightclothes and hers (which were already in a bit of disarray).

"Quite," he added as he lifted her hair to trail hot kisses down her neck.

"I hate it when you're right," she complained as she kissed him, biting his lip, and he cupped her bottom, sliding inside of her.

* * *

><p>Later that morning, Gracie brought all her favorite stuffed animals to the sitting room to serve as an audience while she and Mama read fairytales. Matthew was upstairs at his desk preparing for his return to work the next week.<p>

"Where is the Princess, Gracie?"

Grace pointed to the woman in the beautiful gown and the golden locks. "Dere," she replied.

"Just remember, Gracie," Mary said as she kissed the little girl's head, "that princesses can have brown hair, too. Some of them even wear pants," she continued, smiling wickedly.

"Sybil?"

"Yes, Aunt Sybil is a princess."

"Lady Mary," Molesley announced very formally, "Lord and Lady Grantham are here." When he moved aside, Mary saw her parents standing in the doorway, barely waiting for an introduction before they entered the room. She was so surprised, she couldn't find her voice nor stand.

But Grace could. "You!" she cried, flinging herself at her grandmama. "You! Up!" Cora giggled and picked the little girl up. "Have we interrupted your morning then, my darling?" she asked her granddaughter.

"No," Gracie shook her head, though she didn't truly understand the question. Then she reached over and pulled on her grandpapa's jacket. "You," she said, albeit with somewhat less enthusiasm than she offered Cora.

"Hello," Robert replied with as much dignity as one could use to a twenty month old. His wife stepped on his foot. "How are you today, Gracie?" he revised his greeting.

Gracie shrugged her shoulders in such mimicry of Mary that Cora laughed, and even Robert gave a rusty chuckle.

By now, Mary had regained some of her senses. "Good morning, Mama." She nodded. "Papa."

Cora stepped on Robert's instep again before he could speak, and nodded at him. He swallowed. "Mary, we...I...came to apologize for last night. It was not my intention for you and Sir Richard to meet and...although I don't know the particulars, I am not completely ignorant. I saw that it upset you...and the rest of the family." Finally, he sighed. "I _am_ very sorry."

"Thank you, Papa," Mary said, and prepared to play the role of lady of the manor. "Would you care for something to drink after your walk? Tea, perhaps?"

"Oh, we didn't come to stay!" Cora enthused as she tickled Gracie's belly. "Isis, you remember Isis, don't you, Mary?" She nodded. "Well, she had puppies and they're just weaned. And your father and I," Cora glanced at Robert before continuing, "thought we would invite you and Gracie to come see them."

"Pup?" Gracie asked.

Though her eyes were a bit less luminous than usual, Mary asked her daughter brightly, "What sound does a puppy make, Gracie?"

"Ruff!" she replied and then clapped for herself while Cora and Mary cheered for her, as well. Gracie moved closer to Robert, looking at him very peevishly, until he endeavored to clap for her, too.

"That sounds nice," Mary smiled, reminding herself that this was for her daughter, that her father was just doing what she'd asked of him the night before, and that he had apologized. He _was_ trying. "Let me just go tell Matthew. He's working." She climbed the stairs quickly and knocked on the bedroom door, entering without awaiting a response. "I'm sorry to interrupt, darling, but my parents are here and Gracie and I are going with them to see Isis' puppies."

"That's wonderful!" he enthused. At her wan smile, he added, "That's _not _wonderful?"

She wrung her hands. "I know it's what I asked of him but things are just so uneasy between us, so...awkward."

"Come here," he said softly.

"I can't. I have to go right back down."

"It will only take a moment." When she did, he pulled her into his lap. "Do you want to know one of the first things Grace taught me when I met her?"

She smiled at the thought of those early days: how to quack like a duck, how to change a nappy, how to rock a baby to sleep. "What?"

"That even when things are supremely awkward between two people, they don't have to be when there is a very entertaining and entrancing baby to talk around," he kissed her shoulder and gently pushed her off his lap. "You'll be fine. And...if you're not back by luncheon, I will come for you."

She was almost to the door when she turned back and went to him, took his face in her hands, and kissed him as sweetly as she could. "I'm so very lucky," she murmured before leaving.

* * *

><p>At Cora's insistence, Robert pushed Gracie's pram. The seriousness with which he took the duty would have comical if not for its underlying purpose: Cora was determined to take Mary and Grace to the dressmaker's on Matthew's first day of work.<p>

"So you did notice my tight attire the other night?" Mary asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, darling–you looked perfectly lovely. It's just been so long since I've been able to give you a birthday or a Christmas present. And do you know all the things I have passed up for Gracie over the years?" Cora asked in her quiet little voice. "Please let me do this for you."

"All right, Mama, as long as the dressmaker allows for a great deal of extra fabric so the seams can be let out a great deal in the dress," she sighed.

"I think a mother should be allowed to buy her daughter more than one dress and her granddaughter as many as she wishes," Cora continued, patting her daughter's hand. "Do not even try to argue with me on this," she smiled, batting her eyes.

"Please remember that I am a solicitor's wife," Mary said with a smile. "I do not need anything excessively formal."

"Perhaps one that is excessively formal," Cora continued with the single-mindedness of a child or of a mother of three women. "Or two."

Robert appeared vastly relieved when they arrived at the edge of the stableyard; Gracie continuing to sing "Pup, pup, pup, pup, pup!" the entire way. They left the pram and walked to the stall where the ten week old puppies were sleeping, snuggled all together. Isis' pregnancy had not been planned. There were no breeding charts or talks of lines and colors as would have been usual when breeding a pedigreed dog, so some of the puppies were yellow like their mother, others spotted, and one was completely black.

Mary held the baby up to see through the stall before she brought her in. "See, Gracie girl? Look at all the puppies!"

"Pup, pup, pup! Me! Me!," Gracie cried, which should have been the first indicator of a problem.

Robert opened the door and they all sidled inside so no puppies could make their way past. Immediately Gracie let out a little cry of joy that woke the entire litter, and she plunked herself down in the straw in their midst.

"It looks she will need a bath tonight," Mary told Cora with a laugh. All six puppies tumbled around and over the little girl, one falling immediately to sleep on her leg, the others pushing eager, snuffling kisses all over her, stepping on their brother or sister to do. Mary started to go to Gracie, concerned, but the little girl merely clapped and squealed with laughter and tried to catch each puppy to return the kisses. The puppies were clumsy but not rough, all six of them pushing and shoving one another but not Gracie. "Me! Me!" she repeated to all six of them. "Ruff!"

Eventually, all but the black puppy left her to investigate the rest of the visitors. For a moment, she looked supremely upset but then she simply took her little hand and began gently to stroke the head of the black puppy, who whimpered and cuddled closer. She had practiced being gentle with both Aunt Sybil's and Mama's bellies and, as the puppy cuddled still closer to her, completely covering her lap, she began to sing sweetly, "Baby. Baby. Baby."

"It looks like you've made her day, Papa," Mary said, making a peace offering.

"I can do better than that," he replied, his voice rough with unused emotion. He leaned down towards Gracie and the little black dog.

Gracie again gave him that suspicious look. "Me," she stated, then pet the black pup. "Baby." She stood up, with the black dog barely fitting in her arms, and wobbled over towards the door, as if she was ready to leave with her new friend.

Robert went to her. "Yes," he told her, brushing the dog's fur so their hands overlapped. "I think she should be yours. At least I believe she is a she."

Gracie's face brightened. "Me?" As if to say: _are these people really going to let me leave with this puppy in my arms?_

"Yours." He smiled fondly at her.

"Now, Papa," Mary began, but Cora grabbed her hand to quiet her.

"What shall we name her?" Robert asked. "I always prefer something Egyptian. Perhaps Cleo after Cleopatra."

Gracie shook her head, plopped back down on the straw. "Baby."

He sat down in the straw with his granddaughter, and this was the only thing that kept Mary from announcing that they would _not_ be taking a dog home for their twenty month old when they had a baby on the way. Together, grandfather and granddaughter continued to pet the dog. "No," he laughed. "You can't name a dog 'Baby.'"

"Yes," Gracie replied stubbornly, so like her mother. She pointed to herself. "Me. Baby." She pointed somewhere towards Mary's stomach. "Baby." Then she patted the puppy, sighing happily. "Baby."

"Well, I suppose we can name her later..." Robert said at last.

"Baby," she implored, reaching out to grab her grandpapa's wrist, her bottom lip trembling. "Baby."

"All right. Baby it is," Robert agreed with a smile while Gracie cheered and the puppy licked her hand.

"Papa," Mary began carefully, "I appreciate what you've done for Gracie, but...I wish you had asked me or Matthew whether our household can handle a dog. We have a twenty month old and a baby on the way. We cannot..."

"Oh, tell Molesley it's his responsibility," her father said with a dismissive gesture, his eyes on Grace.

"Papa," she said more stubbornly, watching her daughter become more enamored with "Baby" by the moment. "That would be unfair. She's not even two years old. A puppy is much too large of a responsibility."

"I am her grandfather and if I wish to give her a puppy, I will," he said with finality. He stood and Gracie followed, barely able to hold the squirming puppy.

They exited the stable together. "Papa!" Mary began again, just as Matthew came around the corner.

He kissed his wife's cheek and his daughter's forehead. "I finished early. What's this?" he asked Gracie.

"Baby," Gracie replied.

"My father," Mary said through her teeth, "has given our twenty month old daughter a puppy."

Matthew opened his mouth, closed it, then took a breath. "Robert, thank you, but I don't think..."

"If it does not work out, I'll take the dog back," Robert said stubbornly.

"You can't take it back once she's already in love. She's half in love already," Mary cried. "Do you know how that would upset her?"

"Exactly," Robert retorted, vexed. "You _must_ take Baby now."

"Who is Baby?" Matthew asked.

"Our new dog," Mary hissed.

As they walked home, both Gracie and the dog in the pram, Matthew laid a hand on the back of his wife's neck beneath her hair, trying to ease some of the tension there. "Well, it seems as if Gracie and your father have bonded even if you and he haven't."

"Are _you_ going to get up with this puppy in the middle of the night?" Mary asked.

"No, Molesley will do it. I think this could be considered a household duty, especially since he is not valeting me as often."

Mary sighed and rolled her eyes. "Outvoted again."

Meanwhile, Gracie sang her song to the black puppy: "Baby, baby, baby, baby..."

"That name will be rather confusing when the real baby comes," Matthew said thoughtfully.

Mary just raised her eyebrow at him. "That will be the least of our problems."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Lah di dah. Babies. Puppies. A little something for URMYSTICK. Consider this the calm before the storm, my friends.<em>


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: Have to, have to, must, have to thank **Faeyero **for being the b.e.t.a. and the bomb, obviously. Also from last chapter, **Golden12 **made a couple of really good points about my intentions with the puppy scene that will hopefully help you understand where Mary and her father stand. Although Robert bonded with Gracie and gave her a gift, he refused to acknowledge or respect Mary's choices as Gracie's mother. Once again, he has taken away her power and agency, even when it comes to her own daughter. Also, giving a 20 month old child a puppy is insane. He doesn't know children. He doesn't know the work that goes into raising them. He expects the servants to deal with it (and Baby, the puppy too). All that said, while I think Gracie is now supremely happy with her grandpapa, Mary and Robert took two steps forward one step back. He is still not listening to her or even trying to, even about the simplest things. He should have no say about decisions that are made in her household. Okay. My novel is over. Blame it on Golden over there. ;)_

* * *

><p>Chapter Twenty Seven<p>

It was the Sunday before he went back to work, and Matthew found himself a little despondent. Every time he tried to pick up Gracie for an extra cuddle, she wiggled down, calling for Baby and chasing the puppy around the house. And much like that puppy, Matthew found himself following Mary from room to room, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of her neck, reaching for her hand below the table at luncheon. If she noticed a difference in his behavior, she didn't mention it–though she allowed these displays of affection, even in front of Molesley.

Matthew felt completely out of sorts, like a child grabbing at the bottom of her skirt in a bid for attention.

Finally, they put Gracie to bed and tucked Baby into a box outside Molesley's room, with a clock wrapped in cloth to mimic her mother's heartbeat. "Nigh nigh, Baby," Gracie murmured, petting her puppy one last time before her Papa picked her up and hung her upside down to make her laugh. Then he turned her right side up again and tickled her sides until she shrieked. Finally, he laid her down to change her.

"Don't ever grow up," he told her, rubbing her nose with his, as if that could happen in a single day while he was at work.

"No," she replied happily, playing with her own belly button, completely unaware that she'd agreed to a promise she could never keep.

Mary watched from the doorway. _Oh, Matthew. _Her heart ached for him. She wasn't stupid–she'd noticed every extra glance he'd thrown her way, every extra touch. How he'd appeared crestfallen when Gracie seemed more interested in the dog than in him. They'd all grown so used to being with one another, day in and day out–but now real life was threatening to invade. She wanted to promise him things wouldn't change, but of course they would–they must. He had been cramming all the living he could into the past several months with both Mary and Grace, as if he could make up for all the time he'd been without them.

She watched as he rocked Grace and told her a story about a little girl and her puppies until Gracie fell asleep in the crook of his arm as she always did. One day she wouldn't. One day she would let him tuck her into bed but tell him she didn't need a story that night, and even later she would insist on putting herself to bed, perhaps offering a cheek to kiss, a bit begrudgingly, before trudging up the stairs. Already her hair was growing longer, more like a little girl's then a baby's. _When had that happened?_ The summer sunshine on her face had brought out a few freckles barely visible over her nose.

Although Grace now slept peacefully, Matthew continued to rock–now for his own comfort rather than his daughter's. Tomorrow, when he was going over his appointments in his diary or discussing boring industrial law, he would remember this; he would remind himself of what he would be coming home to. He kissed Gracie's sweet-smelling curls and rose to place her gently in her crib. Surely nothing important could change in the span of one day.

Mary was waiting for him outside the door and wound her arms around his neck, heedless of what her mother-in-law or the staff might think if they came into the hallway and saw the two of them pressed together into one shadow. Matthew went even further, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her–at first just a simple press of lips, but before long, he was dragging her onto her tiptoes. Devouring her mouth desperately, he groped behind himself for the doorknob and stumbled with her into their bedroom.

"Do you think it will always be like this?" he asked, while his lips searched for more skin to taste as his hands quickly divested her of her clothing.

"Like what?" she asked breathlessly removing his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt Struggling with his cufflinks, she too began to kiss any part she could reach.

He took one of her hands and slid it down the front of his unbuttoned pants. "Like this," he groaned. "Feeling like I just have to have you _now._"

By now she was naked and he was nearly so (those damn cufflinks kept his shirt hanging loose from his wrists). "I hope it _is _always like this," she breathed against his shoulder, his chest. "I don't know how we kept our hands to ourselves all those years."

They moved to the bed, he nearly tripping over the pile of shoes and pants at his feet. He sat at the edge, she between his legs, her breasts heavy in his hands. He looked up into her eyes as she pushed his hair back from his forehead, and spoke the secret he had been holding close for days. "I don't want to go to work tomorrow," he whispered, laying his head between her breasts even while his hands moved to caress her hips.

"There's always the weekends," she tried to comfort, her own body vibrating with the force of their combined longing. "But what's a weekend?" she asked in her best Dowager Countess voice to make him laugh. Then she too turned serious. "I was going to ask this earlier," she whispered, pressing a kiss to that thick, blond hair of his. "But now the question has an entirely different connotation." She felt his smile against her skin then the kiss the center of her chest. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Just let me have you," he whispered, standing so he could look straight into her eyes. "All of you."

He pushed gently but persistently so that she lay back on the bed before him like an offering. She gulped a little–not in fear, never that with him–but with a kind of nervous excitement. "I thought you'd had _all _of me, many times."

He knelt and rested his forehead for a moment against her stomach, then looked up at her, his ice-blue eyes hot with desire. "No, not _all_." She swallowed again and nodded, trusting him completely, though she didn't know exactly what she was agreeing to. He bent his head and began to lavish open-mouthed kisses over her with his tongue and lips and mouth and even, gently, with his teeth, devoutly worshipping her. Mary struggled to reach for him so she could return the favor, unused to such one-sided lovemaking, but he gently took her hand, "Let me," he begged. So she did.

Before long she felt as if she was going blind, as if all the light had been sucked out of the room by his mouth and tongue and teeth, her legs limp over his shoulders, and he was calling a response from her body she had not even realized she was capable of giving. Her hands clung to sheets as she writhed, then to the headboard because something had to anchor her when she was simply coming apart. She bit her lip in an attempt to keep from groaning, but soon she was keening and then shrieking. She had no control over the sounds coming from her own mouth. Every part of her trembled and shook until she fell, and just as she felt able to assemble a coherent thought, he started all over again from the beginning.

Finally, he slid his way up her sweat slicked, quaking body. She could feel his desire, hot and heavy on her leg. "What," she swallowed to soothe a throat hoarse from trying to contain her screams. "What in the name of heaven was _that_...that you did to me...twice?"

"Something I've wanted to do to you for a long time," he murmured, gently nuzzling and lapping at her breasts. Then he rose up over her, thrust inside of her, letting out an immediate groan, and began to move quickly. "I want to watch you go over again," he panted near her ear.

"I don't...I don't know if I can _again," _she replied weakly, but maybe she was wrong, she _had_ to be wrong, because something was building inside of her _again_ and she was beginning to pulse around him.

"You are," he encouraged, pounding into her, lifting her thighs, then sucking at her neck. "You already are."

It turned out that, once again, Matthew was right.

They might have talked afterwards. She might have asked him exactly what _that_ was. But her limbs felt completely loose and her neck could not hold up her head. She fell asleep on top of him, her face buried in his chest, her hair a mess around the two of them, their bodies slick with sweat. She only managed to murmur, "Love you," before she fell into an exhausted sleep.

She didn't even hear his response. "I love you too, darling."

* * *

><p>She woke when he did (which was very unusual) and kissed him in that aching way that had both of them wrapping their arms around one another, their foreheads together, as they sighed. "I need to go," he murmured against her mouth with a great deal of regret.<p>

"I know," she whispered. "I just thought I would give you a good morning kiss and wish you such good luck on your first day back to work. And tell you that we will miss you as much as you miss us."

He ran a hand down her body. He didn't think he would ever get tired of her skin. "I don't know if I will be able to get a single thing done with the memory of last night playing in my mind."

She blushed as she gave him another kiss. "Go to work, Captain Crawley. I'll hold down the fort here."

* * *

><p>He picked a letter at random and took it with him to read over his lunch hour.<p>

_Dear Granny,_

_I'm glad to hear that the Flower Show went well. I know what a fierce competition it can be_, and_ I think it very gracious of you to handle your loss in such a humble manner. And just as you said, this will only reignite a passion to win next year, for you and your gardener._

_Today is a little sad for me. I'm starting to wean Gracie (I know, I know what you think of the matter). Every time I feed her, and her brown eyes blink up at mine, her hand against my breast, it is simply one of the most special moments of my life. (I won't lie, though...it was dreadfully painful at first...I didn't want to tell you that because I didn't want to read _I told you so_). _

_I feel as if I am in a season when I just want time to stand still. Things are so wonderful_ _for Gracie and me. _Can't we just stay here for awhile?_ I think. But then I notice that Gracie's gone up a size in clothes, that another month is showing on the calendar. When the doctor suggested weaning her, I nearly started to cry. Really? Now? We won't have that time together, throughout the day, when everything stands still but the rocking chair, and our eyes meet and she knows that she is loved, that I am her mama and I am the one that loves her. Oh, Granny, I adore that darling girl._

_But the process has begun. Soon, I will have to bind myself up (more dreadful pain, from what I hear). And I'll feed her from a bottle and that will be special too, I know. Then I'll introduce real food and that will be fun. And then she'll be a young lady, with beaus, and then quite grown, perhaps at University, and she'll forget to write her mama and I will cry myself to sleep every night._

_Can't we just stay here? Just the two of us? In this rocking chair?_

_Love,_

_MJC & GVC_

When he finished the letter, he began his own, and took another break in the afternoon to walk it down to the post office himself.

* * *

><p>It turned out that shopping with her mother was not the very <em>worst<em> thing in the world. She didn't mind how the seamstress fawned over Gracie and how Gracie pulled out all of her tricks to the delight of the shop, twirling and twirling around. She allowed herself to be measured like a very grown up little girl and they all cheered for her. By the end of Gracie's session, Mary was sure that Cora had ordered the toddler an entire wardrobe including a child's sized fur coat. But Mary knew, from years of experience, that to argue would be fruitless.

The seamstress eyed Mary. "So, you're expecting," she said, though it was impolite to mention it (if it should be mentioned anywhere, it certainly shouldn't be here, when a measuring tape was wrapped around her waist). Again Cora took charge and Mary allowed it, or mostly.

"Absolutely no red," she found herself insisting, more than once.

"But darling," Cora wheedled. "You look stunning in red."

Mary took pity on her mother. "I do favor jewel tones," she said graciously to the seamstress, "and my husband likes me in blue, even black. Especially in black." She nearly blushed remembering the nightgown he'd chosen and recovered by engaging the other woman in a detailed conversation about the virtues of silk versus satin, and the very latest in Parisian sleeve styles.

The entire escapade took much longer than expected (but at least both Gracie and Mary survived) so that by the time they were dropped off at Crawley House, Mary was rushing to make her plan work.

She'd wanted to take Gracie in the pram to meet Matthew on his way home from work. But Gracie was cranky (there had been no nap today, only dress fittings) and insisted on taking Baby in the pram with her (would the dog ever learn to walk on its own?). So off they went. Mary felt disheveled and out of sorts. The skirt she wore hardly fit, the blouse was hideously tight over her ever "blossoming" breasts (as Matthew called them), and her hair was mess from all the hats she'd had to try on. But she knew this would mean the world to Matthew so she hurried along, perspiring a little more in the process.

This, she thought, was what it was to be married, really married, to do something for the other person that would mean the world to them, even if one felt like a complete, ugly mess.

Matthew got off his bicycle, grinning widely, as soon as he saw them. "What a treat to see my two girls!" he enthused, and Gracie cheered and clapped while Baby panted out her excitement. He kissed his daughter and then his wife. "What a lovely surprise!" In her ear he whispered, "I take it this means you survived today?" The look he gave her, and the hand he used to cup the hip that was hidden by the pram, told her that to him she was not a mess, that he wanted her even now, which she found rather strange.

"Barely," she said cheerfully through her teeth. "Oh look," she pointed towards the bakery, only a few meters away. "Maybe we ought to buy Gracie a treat for tonight. She was ever so good today and without a nap too." A strange expression she had never seen before crossed his face, but he dug into his pocket for the money and handed it to her silently. "Aren't you coming in?" she asked.

"I'll stay here with Gracie." His smile was strained. His hand left her hip. "We'll talk about our days. Baby's too, of course."

"All right," she replied, feeling unsettled as she walked to the building and opened the door.

The woman behind the counter was pretty, if not young, with dark hair and blue eyes. A blush stained her cheeks. "What can I get for you, Lady Mary?" she asked. It wasn't unusual for people in the town to call her by her name, even if they didn't know her personally, but there was something about the _way_ this this woman said her name that felt personal.

"I'm sorry," Mary replied, confused, as she wiped the sweat from the back of her neck and patted her hair in a discreet attempt to make certain all her hairpins were in place. "Do we know each other?"

"No," the woman said quickly, her eyes flickering to stare out the window at Matthew before she dropped her gaze to the counter. "Congratulations on your wedding," she whispered. Then, in an overly cheerful tone, she asked, "What can I get for you today? The chocolate cake is very good."

Mary felt as if she had missing the punchline to a joke. "I'm sorry? Is something the matter?" she asked.

"Oh no, Lady Mary," the other woman replied, her tone filled, oddly, with what sounded like regret. This was confirmed by her next words. "I'm just ever so sorry," she whispered, her blue eyes filling with tears.

"You needn't be sorry for anything," Mary comforted, even reaching out a lace-gloved hand to the woman's bare one on the counter. The baker snatched her hand back as if burned, darting a startled glance up at her customer. Then she began to wring her hands.

"You're too nice, too pretty, not even pretty but beautiful," the woman babbled, tears in her voice as well as her eyes now, though she refused to let them fall. "I knew you would be, and gracious, and strong–else he wouldn't have loved you, would he?" Clearly not in control of her words, she continued, "He loved you so much, milady, like my Stephen did. I knew that, even when..." Mary stood as though frozen, unable either to move or to speak. "He was just so alone, you see," the woman said, pleading now, reaching for the hands she had so recently spurned, gripping them as she gazed into Mary's eyes. "And then my husband had died in the war..."

Mary jerked her hands from the baker's. "I–I must go," she excused herself hurriedly. Dimly she heard the other woman call after her, but she could not hear the words over the roaring in her ears, and the echo of a conversation she'd had with Matthew in New York.

"_Have you ever been with a woman before?" she asked._

"_Yes," he admitted. _

"_When? Who was she? Was it Lavinia?"_

"_No," he said quickly. "No. It wasn't Lavinia. It was about a year ago."_

"_Did you love her?" she asked._

"_No, I didn't love her. We were acquaintances. And..."_

"_And what?" she asked, her hand sliding back across the couch towards him. "Was she a...prostitute?"_

"_No, she wasn't a prostitute. She was an acquaintance who knew the score before anything happened between us. By then I was sure that you weren't coming back and if you did it would be with a husband and God, Mary..._._" _

Matthew looked up at his wife from where he knelt in front of the pram. She carried no bag or box full of treats, and the truth of the encounter was written on her face–the shock, the knowledge, and the hurt. She was very pale, her lips bloodless. She walked slowly and her eyes passed over him as if she did not know him.

The walk back to Crawley House was silent but for Gracie singing to her dog, "Baby, Baby, Baby..."

Mary did not take his arm, even side stepping a little when he offered it, and when they reached the house she lifted Gracie from her pram and vanished upstairs with her without a word.

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><p><em>AN: So now that URMYSTICK loved me for half a chapter, I suppose we're no longer on speaking terms after this. What do you guys think? How will/should Mary handle this? Does she have a right to be upset? Will she ever be able to eat chocolate cake again? _


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: I know this is up late. But I can not explain to you how brutal this chapter was for both myself and the beta, **Faeyero.**__It was brutal to write and the editing and revising with a ton of help from the beta, was also brutal. We really wanted every word to be important, significant in some way. _We_ really, desperately wanted to get it right. As a side note, if you would like to remember the original conversation before they married that is referred to throughout this chapter, see the end of chapter nine._

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><p>Chapter Twenty Eight<p>

When Mary descended the stairs with Grace for dinner, Matthew's heart sank. He recognized _Lady Mary_ in the tilt of her chin, the erectness of carriage that no corset could create. She was unsmiling as she took her seat at the table between his mother and Gracie, and she spoke little. He would not have been surprised, but for Gracie's presence, if when she did deign to speak it would be of sea monsters.

Isobel did her best to keep the conversation flowing, but it was Gracie whose presence distracted them from the awkwardness between them. So they laughed at the way Baby sat below Gracie's high chair waiting for the inevitable spills. When Gracie realized what the dog was anticipating, she began to drop her food more purposefully, squealing with delight when Baby gobbled it up. Afterwards, she held up her hands, as if she didn't understand how that bit of carrot had been thrown into the dog's mouth. "Uh oh," she said, her mouth a perfect, shocked O. The whole table laughed, including Mary.

"All right, all right," she finally said, rising to pick up her daughter. "You're obviously full if you're sharing so thoughtfully with Baby. Time for a bath."

"Baby?" Gracie asked.

"No, Baby will remain downstairs," Mary replied. Gracie immediately began to cry for Papa, knowing from experience that her father was a softer touch. But Mary shifted the baby to her other hip, putting herself between Grace and Matthew, and addressed him without looking up from her daughter. "I'm not bringing that dog upstairs with _me _while _I _give her a bath. She can't always get whatever she wants." With this she vanished upstairs, leaving him staring up after them. It appeared as if both he and Baby would not be receiving invitations to help with Gracie's bath, a first for Matthew since New York. He felt bereft.

It was the first time she ever had ever intentionally kept Gracie from him since the moment they had met in Central Park.

Mary laughed and splashed with the baby. She lathered Gracie's hair and spoke nonsense. She told her daughter what a good little girl she had been at the dressmaker's shop. _Praise would have to do in place of any treats from the bakery,_ she thought angrily, while smiling for Gracie's benefit.

The whole time, a part of her was aching. _This, this, was why it was better to be alone, _her heart whispered. _If you had never opened up to him, you could enjoy giving your child a bath without thinking about your husband's...lover. _She could not remember a time, since he'd walked back into her life, when she so badly wanted to be away from him, and was glad for the simple, homey task that provided her a valid excuse.

It was unfortunate that Gracie–who had not had her customary nap that afternoon–would go right to sleep after her bath and thus prevent her mother from hiding in the nursery until her father went to sleep. She sighed. Matthew would undoubtedly want to "discuss things." So, Mary would have to talk to him, with no baby between them but the one she carried in her belly, not big enough yet to be much of a distraction. He would want to talk. She did not want to talk. It was a very simple equation without a solution pleasing to either party.

She dressed Grace with care, smiled at her wide little yawn and was just leaning forward to smell her clean skin when she _felt_ Matthew in the doorway. Though she could not see him, she could imagine him perfectly, leaning there against the doorframe, a hand in his pocket probably, with such a serious look on his face, adoration towards his daughter, worry over his wife's edgy posture. Keeping herself between the still-yawning baby and her father, she said politely, if coolly, "I'd like to rock her tonight." In her mind's eye, she saw him nod, but she did not hear him move. She knew he wanted to speak, to say _something, anything._

But he also knew that if he said one thing in front of Grace, she would saw his tongue off with a blunt object. It was one of the first rules she'd taught him, when she told him, "I'd prefer not to fight in front of _my daughter_."

As Mary had predicted, Grace was asleep in her arms in less than two minutes. Mary could remember nights when it would take a half an hour for her to fall asleep in her arms. She knew there would be days, perhaps not so far away, when she would not want to rock at all. There wasn't even time to offer her a bottle. But Mary went on rocking.

She wondered if a rocking chair could soothe more than just a baby.

"Mary," Matthew murmured from his post in the doorway. So, she was being summoned. Without looking at him, she stood and laid the baby in the crib, covering her with a blanket they'd brought from New York.

"Sweet dreams, my darling girl," she whispered. "Mama loves you ever so much."

She huffed a little. He was still in the doorway. How was she supposed to walk through a doorway with him in it? Rising, she tilted her head at its most aristocratic, arrogant angle, and tried to brazen it out. He simply reached out and took her arm, closing the nursery door, and leading her to their room. It was the very opposite of their routine the night before; tonight they were very much two distinct shadows in the hallway "Mary," he said again, as if he were waiting for something from her. _But she had nothing to give him._

Pulling her arm gently from his grasp, she went to the wardrobe and took out one of her most demure nightgowns, one she'd worn during her pregnancy with Grace, and carried it into the bathroom to change. It might be foolish, but the worn cloth and high neck did feel a bit like armor. She wanted to say: _Do not even consider touching me tonight_, but she found she didn't have the words. Her nightclothes would have to do that for her. Adding a robe for an extra layer of protection, she splashed water on her face and took a deep breath, looking at herself in the mirror.

Matthew had not lied to her. She had to acknowledge that–and yet, somehow, it felt as though he had. Every time he touched her, every time he made her feel such pleasure in places she hadn't even known existed on her own body, or did something she didn't know was possible–it wasn't as if they were figuring it out, discovering it as man and wife. He already knew what all those things would do to her, because he had done them before. When she gathered all her courage and tried something new she thought would bring him pleasure, then asked, so self consciously, "Was that...all right?" the acts requiring such audacity on her part were simply repeats on his.

He had been _taught_ to do those things, to respond that way, by someone who had known all those things. She felt as though she had been given the punch line of a joke after everyone else had already finished laughing.

The one thing she knew better than Matthew–perhaps the _only_ thing, was how to play the aristocrat. _Odd,_ she thought, _that what was once second nature should now feel so like a mask._

So. What would Lady Mary say?

She sighed in frustration, rubbing her temples. Lady Mary would have _nothing_ to say because her frame of reference was one man dying on top of her and another leaving her on the floor in a ruined corset. Lady Mary didn't know what it meant to love, how it felt to lie skin to skin, hearts banging against one another as they recovered from such deliciousness, because she had been left behind when Matthew had come to them in New York. No, Lady Mary would say: _He's just like the rest of them. _The rest of the men who used women for their own purposes without recognizing in them any inherent worth.

It was an unworthy thought, but she thought it might give her the courage she needed.

She left the bathroom and slipped into bed. Matthew had already foreseen her plan of sleeping on the very edge of their mattress and was sitting upright, dead center. As she turned on her side away from him, her toes brushed his leg and she skittered back as if shocked. "Mary," he said again, laying his hand on her back. "Please–let's talk about this."

"I'm very tired," she said in her best Lady Mary voice, and although she wanted to say them weakly, and curl into a ball, she sat up. She could feel his arm against hers and for the first time it did not soothe.

"I never lied to you," he murmured. "You asked me in New York if I'd ever been with anyone and I told you the truth."

"You did tell me you'd been with someone," she replied evenly. _You did tell me that at least. Because I thought to ask._

He sat silently, waiting for her to continue, but she merely folded her arms and stared straight ahead. "Aren't we going to fight about this?" he asked. "Aren't you going to yell at me about how I could have warned you or...something?"

"No, I don't want to know the story. I've already put it together. She was the woman that put the spark in your eye Granny wrote about in the letter we, ironically, read together," she said calmly. "Why should we fight about this? You're right–you told me the truth. You were in a very difficult situation. What more is there to say?"

He sighed. "I feel as though there ought to be an argument," he confessed.

"Well, Matthew, I will leave it to you to puzzle out any guilt you might have for yourself, because I am tired and would like to sleep," she said, pulling at the covers so she could slide down to her side once more.

"I know you were embarrassed," he tried again. His comment made her sit back up so quickly that the headboard made a _thump_ against the wall.

"Embarrassed?" she asked, incredulous. "Is that what you think this is about? That I was embarrassed to run into my husband's ex lover, completely ignorant to the relationship? That I was embarrassed to hear details of this relationship when I was only trying to buy my daughter a sweet?" When she paused for breath, he opened his mouth to reply, but she barreled on. "I was–am–_hurt_, Matthew, not embarrassed."

"Mary, I'm sorr–"

She held up a hand to stop him, then she opened her mouth and closed it again, started to turn towards him and then away. She so rarely had the _right _words to explain her feelings when it came to him.

"Just say it," he implored. "Whatever it is."

She turned her body towards him but she lowered her face, still unable to meet his eyes. "I told you _everything _in New York when it came to this _area _before we married. I even told you that Pamuk–that Pamuk was never–that we never" she closed her eyes. "And you found me in the library. You saw..." her voice broke and he put an arm around her. "Please don't," she asked softly and he removed it just as quickly. "You saw...that night, you knew what..." Now she turned away entirely. "I don't know if you'll ever understand how–how humiliating it was, and that it will always be so, for you to have seen me that night. So don't speak to me of embarrassment and humiliation."

"You're right," he agreed. "And Mary, I–"

"Matthew," she paused to wet her lips, "this is hard for me. I have to say it all at once." She took another breath. "Before we married, you knew the most intimate details of my _associations _with men besides you."

"Not about Drew," he couldn't help arguing.

"Oh, Matthew, be serious, please." She sighed and shook her head. "He was a friend with whom I went on walks. We kissed twice, and neither kiss was more salacious than one you would give Sybil. There was no _association_." Again he started to speak, but she waved him off. "_Please. _I know I am taking a long time to say what would be simple for someone else but I am doing best. I told you every–sometimes painful–detail of my _associations _with other men. You did not extend that same courtesy to me."

"I answered your questions that night, Mary," he defended. "What was I supposed to do? Tell you all the sordid details?"

"Yes!" she said. "If we are to have a true partnership in this marriage, we must be truthful with one another, and not only within the bounds of answers to questions. I told you _everything _because I believed it would be unfair for you not to know. It was unfair that I walked into that bakery without the details. _You should have told me_, Matthew, without my having to ask about–things I never knew to ask about, anyway. _Before we married. _Good God, Matthew, don't you think these details are important enough to be told? And I'm only crying because of the baby," she said, pushing his hand away as he tried to comfort her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and took her hand. "I'm genuinely sorry. I should have told you, somehow." She squeezed his hand but then let go. "What else? There's something else."

"It's _hard," _she whispered while tears coursed down her cheeks. _Oh, Baby, please pipe down!_

Though he wanted to soothe, to stroke her hair, to lean his head against hers, he knew she did not want any of those things from him. The thought that he might have ruined things, that she might never want any of those things from him again, had his heart in his throat.

"All the things we've _done..." _she whispered. "_Everything. _From the way we kiss to the way we touch to...just _everything_. I thought it was just the way it was between us, the way we are together–because of the way we feel about one another, that it was more than just a physical act. But you've done it all before...I feel very stupid because I thought we were learning together and looking back it is painfully obvious that this was not the case," she finished, wiping her eyes wearily.

"You're not stupid," he said emphatically. "But I think you misunderstand what–_that-–_was like with...before you. Before you, it _was_ just physical. It was selfish in a way, both of us taking what we could from the other. It has _never_ been like that with you."

"It doesn't matter," she stated, clearly not understanding him, not even attempting to, really. "We weren't together then. I made it clear I did not want you in my life. You were free. Completely free."

"Mary," he took her hand again and would not let her remove it from his grasp. "Will you let me explain? Will you let me try?"

She shook her head. "Do you know how many times I have asked you to explain something I didn't know was possible in that area of our relationship? Even last night I asked, and you avoided my question. And I've asked before. Many times."

"What was I supposed to say?" Frustration and fear made his voice harsh. "That Gretchen taught me all of those things on a squeaky mattress above the bakery while I thought of you the whole time, missing you and hating myself?" He wasn't angry, but he was frustrated–with himself most of all, but also with Mary. He was out of patience. He was tired of her careful phrasing. He wanted this wound lanced and healed by the end of the night. "That finally I was doing these things _with _you as I had dreamt I would? That the two experiences were quite literally incomparable?"

"It would have been a start," she cried. "You should have told me before anything happened in the first place, just as I told you!" she finished passionately.

"So that I could bring yet _another_ specter into the bedroom on our wedding night when you'd already brought _two_ of your own?" He could have have sawed off his own tongue after the words flew out of his mouth. He darted a glance at her to see her reaction.

For the first time, she was looking right at him. Her expression reminded him of the shell-shocked faces of men who had seen too much during the war.

"_Mary–"_ he whispered, penitent.

It wasn't even true. She'd come to him that night, bringing only herself, soothing _him, _and he would always remember it, without nerves or clumsiness. She trusted him implicitly.

She began to weep again, closing her eyes against the tears. "I just want you to know that I would be crying right now whether I was pregnant or not."

"Mary," he tried again. "I meant–"

"There's no need for clarification, Matthew. I understand," she said, sniffling. She took her pillow, her book from the table by the bed, and her throw blanket into her arms and stood. "You have never–" she could barely get the words out. "Do you know...what it has meant to me that you have never blamed me for either situation? Can you fathom how I felt when I finally believed–that it would never come between us? I could believe it because _you_ believed it. Well," she wiped her eyes, pointlessly, since more tears were coming. "I suppose that was a lie of omission, too. I'm very sorry you have apparently been harboring this discomfort so long, Matthew. It sounds as if it has been awfully difficult to be married to a woman who was raped, especially since she was ruined anyway by a mistake in her youth."

She walked to the door, paused with her hand on the doorknob. The she turned. "I suppose I should thank you for never voicing whatever thoughts you must have about your honorable actions in saving a ruined woman and adopting her bastard child," she said, her tone filled with ice.

Matthew stared, aghast, as she shut the door.

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><p><em>AN: If you have been reading this story and never left a review, I know it would mean the world to Faeyero and me if you gave us your opinions, thoughts, feelings, rants about this chapter. (And of course, I love hearing from the regulars). We worked really hard on this one, guys! It took a lot out of us. :/_


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: The truth of the matter is that this chapter really shouldn't have been posted tonight. I am still recovering and now, the best beta, Faeyero, is also sick (I swear I do not know her in "real life" and cannot be held responsible for sending germs her way. But I promised some of you guys (I do try to respond to every comment that is posted by someone who allows PMs) and I try to keep my promises. Don't know what else to say. No time gap between this chapter and the last. OH AND YOUR COMMENTS WERE INCREDIBLE. SERIOUSLY. I CANNOT EMPHASIZE THIS ENOUGH. They meant the world to us because all of the hard work and our debates over intentions and blah blah blah (and how tired I was at work this morning) paid off. It was great to hear from all of you–new comers and the golden oldies._

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><p>Chapter Twenty Nine<p>

_Even asleep, Mary knew she was in the midst of a nightmare as soon as she looked down at her hands and saw that she wore gloves, red gloves to her elbows, as if she had dipped both her arms in blood. But no, that was not quite right. These gloves felt very fine as she slid them along the banister and walked to the bottom of the stairs to meet Marianne, her miniature, the paper doll version of herself. Marianne wore diamonds, glittering around her neck, a choker tight even against her tiny frame. Her shoulders bent from the weight of the gems, or so it appeared to Mary. But then, Marianne reached over with her child-like hands and began to remove Mary's glove, finger by finger, shimmying the silk all the way off her arm, and Mary realized that the woman's bent frame was due to the punishing task she'd been given by the man who owned her. She moved to the other glove and began again. For a moment, her eyes lifted to Mary's, apologetic and full of regret._

_And then Richard was there, clamping his ruddy hands on Marianne's pale shoulders and moving her out of the way, taking one of the long red gloves from his young wife without looking at her at all._

_His eyes were only for Mary._

_Though even asleep Mary knew this was a nightmare, she could neither control it nor force herself to wake from it. _

_She endured his stare as he bent slightly towards her, as if he were bestowing some type of honor upon her, or asking her to dance. He looked the same. He always looked the same. He ran her crimson glove through his fingers._

"_What shall we do with this?" he asked, and his voice felt like an unwanted caress down Mary's back. _

_She did not reply. She could not. She wanted to scream, but her mouth would not open and her voice would not work. _

_Richard slid the glove around her neck, grasping the ends to draw her nearer to him. She saw that his eyes were sad, his whisper hoarse: "Once and for all, are you still in love with Matthew Crawley?"_

_She did not reply. She could not. She wanted to scream, but her mouth would not open and her voice would not work._

_There were tears in Richard's eyes as he began to knot the long glove around her neck. There was neither a natural smile nor his usual smirk; instead, his lips were turned down in a frown. The creases on his face deepened. She realized that she only needed to deny it and he would stop._

_The makeshift noose continued to tighten, until she could no longer swallow. She meant to scream it–her denial. She wanted to live. She only wanted to live._

_But her own heart betrayed her. Her voice when she answered him was gentle, belying the pressure on her throat: "But of course. He's the only man I've ever loved."_

_The creases in Richard's face deepened. The glove tightened painfully around her throat. _

Every time I die_, she thought, _I wear red.

"_You have given me the power to destroy you," Richard whispered brokenly, nearly leaning his forehead against hers. _

_Though she could no longer breathe, though her neck ached, she thought: What? Who?_

_Then she remembered: Matthew._

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><p>Matthew didn't know what woke him–the crash, the breaking of <em>something<em>,or Grace's cries. He flew out of bed and rushed to his daughter's room. In his hurry, he failed to turn on the lights but unerringly reached into her crib and picked her up in the dark, soothing and shushing and patting, as carrying her from the nursery to the room where his wife slept, where the crash had come from.

It was only a lamp. He could see even in the dark, the way her arm had flung out and hit it, even in sleep, how she was not burrowed in blankets, but was, in fact, using her other hand to claw at her neck. He went to her bed, even with the crying little girl in his arms. He did not know whom to comfort first, so he could comfort no one at all. "Mary," he whispered, shaking her a bit with his free hand. It was obvious she was in the middle of a nightmare. "Mary," he said more loudly, and her eyes opened and she gasped for breath as if she had just been pulled from the sea, half-drowned. The baby was even more upset by the sight of her mother, lying prone and gasping, literally unable to bring air into her lungs.

Isobel had also heard the crash and hurried to Mary, though it took her longer because she at first looked for Mary in the master bedroom. She helped her daughter-in-law to a sitting position and patted her back, just as Matthew patted the wailing Gracie's. "Just breathe," Isobel insisted, as if it were that easy. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Matthew saw that Mary's neck was red and raw from her own hand. "Get her a glass of water, Matthew," Isobel commanded, continuing to rub Mary's back in soothing circles.

She drank every drop, and when she finished she looked Matthew in the eye. "You must get Gracie out of here. I've upset her." Her voice was hoarse, as if she had been screaming for hours with no one to hear.

Matthew hesitated for a second, as Mary continued working on catching her breath, but Gracie was sobbing, her lips trembling. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she watched her mother struggle. So he did as his wife asked, though he felt torn between his two girls. He took Gracie back to the dark nursery and sat in the rocking chair with her, but she continued to cry. He was finally able to decipher the word "Mama" from her broken sobs as she tried to wiggle down from his lap. He did not know what to do. So he took Gracie back into their bedroom and laid her on the bed, a privilege which usually comforted her. She outwitted him, however, crying for "Mama," sliding off the bed, on the side opposite of Matthew and running as fast as her little bare feet could carry her towards the room where Mary was.

Isobel had turned on the light by now, and Mary had finally caught her breath. "I had a bad dream," Mary admitted.

"I can see that," Isobel replied without judgement. "You also had a minor panic attack."

They heard the pounding of little feet and Gracie's wailing. Mary rose on unsteady feet to meet her daughter at the door. "Mama is fine," she told the little girl, who launched herself into Mary's arms. Matthew was not far behind but Gracie was not soothed because Mama did not sound like Mama, her voice was too deep, too worn, and shaking a bit at the end of her sentence.

Mary stroked the little girl's hair. "It's all right, my love. It was only a dream." She turned her back on Matthew and began to sway with Gracie, nearly dancing with her as they sometimes had at home in New York, though Gracie continued to cry pitifully against her mother's raw neck.

This continued for five painfully long minutes before Isobel spoke. "If you want to know my opinion," though she did not pause for a response, "all three of you need to get back in bed with Gracie between you two. She's very worked up, you know."

Neither of them had a better plan, so they did as she suggested. Gracie sniffled, reaching first for Papa, then clinging to Mama. They shuffled back to the silver room and the three of them lay down together, with Gracie on her stomach. She seemed only slightly mollified with both of her parent's hands rubbing her back, though she continued to hiccup and remained awake even in the dark.

Mary loved her daughter. She would do anything for her, even lie in this bed with this man. She would even rub Gracie's back along with him, in the dark, so their hands bumped and brushed one another. Mary did not want him to touch her but she would do anything for her daughter, even this.

She closed her eyes and whispered to Gracie, "Everything is all right. Mama is fine," and hated herself for lying.

Even more, she hated hearing Matthew's added whisper waft across the bed, "Gracie girl, just close you eyes. Mama is here. Papa is here. We're all tucked in." In the end, she knew, it was his comment that had the baby shuddering, then relaxing completely.

Mary fell asleep first, her hand stilling at the center of Grace's back. When he was sure she was completely asleep, her breathing even, Matthew covered her hand with his own.

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><p>Mary always woke by degrees, and never happily. On this morning, it was a whisper bearing her name that caused her to dig herself slowly out of her blanket cocoon. Matthew was kneeling in front of her, dressed for work, his eyes level with her own. "Mary," he repeated again, still in a whisper.<p>

"I'm awake," she whispered back and tried bravely to open her bleary eyes and move the hair out of her eyes.

"I wanted to tell you that I am leaving for work," he said in a low voice. When she continued to watch him, her eyes barely open, he went on, "I put pillows on the other side of Grace. She's out cold."

"Thank you," Mary offered, sliding her cheek back against the pillow and shutting her eyes.

"Mary," he repeated for the third time. "I cannot leave things as they were last night."

She kept her eyes closed, her whisper quiet. "I am sorry for your discomfort, Matthew, but I am very tired and this cannot be fixed in whispers, with Grace asleep, and you kneeling by the bed."

He laid a hand on her back. She wanted to pick it off of her, holding it between two fingers. "Can we just say we are sorry for last night? Can we at least just say that?"

"Can we?" she whispered back and then turned her head away from him.

He stood, then leaned forward and moved her hair away from her ear. Very quietly, so as not to wake Gracie, but with a great deal of anguish, he whispered "I am very sorry. I am so sorry. I feel as if I need a new word for _sorry_."

She didn't move or open her eyes. It was as if she hadn't heard him, though he knew she was awake. So he stood, slowly and painfully, as he used to when he was first leaving his wheel chair, though this pain was not physical. He could do nothing else but leave for work, one of her letters to Violet already in his pocket.

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><p>He had barely settled at his desk before he opened it to read it. He wanted to hear his wife's voice, even if it was only on paper, and he could tell from the number of sheets that this was a lengthy note. From the date at the top he knew it had been written earlier than some of the others he had read recently.<p>

_Dear Granny,_

_Well you've been saying it and saying it: "Mary, you must slow down." "Mary, you really need to take care of yourself, too." "Mary, when do you sleep?" Apparently these are good questions, because last week, I fell asleep while standing up and cooking eggs. I woke to find my eggs burnt, the baby still asleep in the basket I lay her in when I am downstairs, and my robe on fire (just the sleeve...I was fine and yes, I cook eggs)._

_I look in the mirror and I don't recognize myself. There are bags upon bags underneath my eyes. Sometimes I pass another mother on the street, the both of us pushing prams, and we nod at one another because we know. We both have the same pallor. We both can't remember the last straight eight hours of sleep we've had._

_Mrs. Larsen says that I need a man to help me with things. "I don't want to be married," I tell her. "I wouldn't be any good at it." Her eyebrows always raise and she flips her short black hair. "You don't have to marry him, sweets."_

_But we are not that kind of people are we, Granny?_

_Mrs. Larsen is amusing and I enjoy her; I am happy that her life works for her. I could not do it, knowing that I could just be left __by a man–__or__,__ worse__,__ that I could leave_ _him__. I know myself too well. It's too easy to walk away, I think. Our kind of people can get so __angry__ at one another that __we would__ like to kill __our__ spouse__,__ but __we don't_leave_. We just suffer. Which is better do you think? Our way or Mrs. Larsen's?_

_Grandmother says I should marry a rich man and hire a nanny. That is her answer to the bags under my eyes. "You are wasting your youth," she says. "And for what?"_

_For my daughter, I think. For Grace._

_So I wake up and feed her five times during the night even though it is painful. Then the next day I do it all over again. I fall asleep on my feet making eggs. _

_For Grace._

_You'll never hear me say to her, when she's grown, when I am angry, "After all I've done for you...!" I won't say it._

_Sometimes I think, what if Grace __had __never __come__ to be? What if the small library __had __happened with no result? I think I would have become a ghost, haunting Downton. Maybe I would have married but I would never __have __love__d__. And one day, I would have the servants fill the tub and I would sink into the water, my chin, my lips, my nose, my whole face, and never come up. Or rush off a cliff with my arms spread wide. My last thought would be "Finally, mercy."_

_What I think I'll say to Grace someday is: after all you've done for me, I will do anything for you. I was meant to be your mother and you were meant to be my daughter. And I love you more than I have ever loved myself._

_Do you think Mama ever felt that way about me? And what about Papa? Did he ever love me more than the bricks and the stones of Downton? I don't know. I was never very happy, when I look back. Not that they are to blame. Happy people beget unhappy people all the time. **But are loved people ever unhappy?** Once I told Carson, "for the first time I understand what it is to be happy, it's just that I know that I won't be."_

_I was so young then. What was I thinking? If the ghost of Christmas future had told me, your happiness will be a baby in a cradle whom you will breast feed until you feel as if you would die from the pain of breast feeding...I would have laughed so hard and so long. I didn't even know how to hold a baby. What a great joker of a ghost you are, sir!_

_This letter is horribly long and disjointed because I am so exhausted you see. But you know, I saved the best for last. Gracie is smiling! She is learning to smile! Her gums so pink. She giggles a little too sometimes. At me the most, even at perfect strangers, even at Grandmother (Imagine that). And I think someday I will tell her: **You were the happiest baby and the most loved.**_

_I cannot think of anything a child, tiny or grown, would want to hear more than those words._

_Love,_

_Mary_

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><p>Mary's morning began dismally (even not including her unwelcome awakening by her husband). She woke to Gracie crying for Papa, searching for him on the bed. "Hello, my girl!" Mary sang out, her voice back to normal, though her throat pained her. "Good morning!" At the sight of her, Gracie began to kick her heels into the bed.<p>

"Papa," she demanded stubbornly, her lip beginning to tremble.

"Papa's at work, darling," Mary soothed but the little girl did not understand. It was then that Mary realized that there was no getting out of this thing. Maybe that should have been obvious before she agreed to marry Matthew or perhaps when they stood in front of the judge. It wasn't as if she married him thinking,_ someday I might want out of this. _That was not how she had been raised; as Granny often said, "That's not the type of people we are." But the whole time in New York had been a whirlwind and she'd never stopped to think, _he might hurt me again, we might hurt each other again, we might say terrible things to one another that cannot be taken back._ Naïvely, she thought they'd both done all the hurting two people could do to one another in the previous ten years. So, what exactly what she was supposed to do when the daughter she'd raised for eighteen months without him suddenly would not be soothed by anyone other than her papa of a few months, the very man who was making Mary's heart quiver and ache beneath her old nightgown and robe as he thought up "a new word for sorry"?

"Gracie," Mary continued cheerfully. "Are you ready to go have breakfast with Mama? And see Baby?" The little girl knuckled her tears away from her eyes and nodded. "You have to let Mama pick you up then." The little girl stood and walked nearer the edge of the of the bed, with trepidation, every step she took seeming to shout: _You are not my Papa and that is who I want!_

"No Papa?" Gracie's voice quavered.

"He'll be back," Mary promised in her happiest of voices. "He will be back in time for dinner."

But despite Mary's promise, the baby was cranky throughout breakfast, the dog peed on the floor, and Mary wanted to scream by nine o'clock. _This was so much easier when I was by myself. _She knew it was a lie even as she thought it, but at the moment it felt right. Poor Molesley cleaned up the dog's mess and Isobel, noting her daughter-in-law's pallor and the tension from the night before as well as her use of the guest room, offered to take the baby for a walk.

"Are you sure?" Mary asked hopefully. She just needed a hot shower and everything would be all right. She was sure of it. It had to be.

"I thought I would garden in the back this morning, milady," Molesley informed her. "I can take the pup with me and she can run around a bit."

"That sounds lovely. I won't be long," she murmured, forcing a smile.

She cried in the shower, her hands braced against the wall. _Baby, please, _she thought, rubbing the slight swell of her belly. The events of the day weren't worth crying over. But when she was pregnant, _everything _felt like something worth crying over. Not that she didn't have _some_ cause, she thought-like meeting her husband's former lover the previous day. The irony was that _Gretchen _had ceased to matter to Matthew long before the other woman began to matter to her. They could not even work through the problem together because, to him, it was no longer a problem. And so, in typical fashion, she and Matthew had managed to hurt one another on a whole other level by creating new, much more painful conflict than they'd ever encountered before.

She wished she could go back and step into that conversation, right in the middle of the building argument, and tell them both, _This pain you feel? If you both don't pipe down and go to sleep it will double in a few moments. In five minutes, it will triple and by the end of the night, it will have multiplied by ten._

She left the shower, dried her body and her tears. She dressing, struggling with her blouse and her _blossoming _breasts (_why couldn't she escape his voice, even when he was not present?_), when the doorbell rang. She thought about ignoring it, but then remembered that Isobel and the baby were walking, Molesley was in the garden, and Mrs. Byrd had the morning off. _Wonderful, _she thought as she ran down the stairs in her bare feet, braiding her wet hair as quickly as possibly could, and threw open the door.

"I'm sorry..." she began but had to stop and use her hand to shield her eyes; her visitor's face was totally obscured by the sun shining in her eyes.

But then he spoke, the voice from her nightmares full of surprise. "Mary?"

The clouds moved to cover the sun and she was able to drop her hand. "Sir Richard," she responded automatically. The end of her braid was dripping on the floor; she could hear it–_drip, drip, drip._

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><p><em>AN: Wabam. I need to know reactions. I need to know if you think M and M will ever make up NOW that this fool is back in her doorway. I need to know what you think about the fact that she is alone in the house! I need to know why you think he is here! I need to know. _


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Hello! Sorry for the delay but really it will pay off in the end. I promise. Thanks as always to Faeyero (and her mom). Also thank you to everyone who commented. I reply to everyone who comments (and allows PMs on their accounts) but I know I have about three more to go. So if you haven't heard from me, it's coming. I have more to say...But first you have to read the chapter. _

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><p>Chapter Thirty<p>

"Richard, please," he implored as he took off his hat. "Surely there's no need for formalities; we know each other...quite well." He smiled. _Could she have imagined the sinister little pause? And _was_ his smile predatory, or was that merely the influence of the memory of the small library?_

She could remember waiting for the train, with him in a bowler hat asking the same thing, _Richard, please_ which really meant _I want to you to know me; I want to be known by you. I don't want empty manners between us. _His next words had been–_you see, I want you to marry me. _

It had seemed so incongruous: _I want you to know me; I want you to marry me_.

_Well, _she thought, _I may not know you but I certainly know what you are capable of._

"May I come in?" he asked, gesturing through the doorway. He was all politeness and manners and she felt viciously cold. This was the Richard, back before they were engaged, back before Matthew had returned wounded, who had had a suit made for walking through the Yorkshire countryside–the wrong suit, but still–who wanted so badly to be accepted, to be allowed into her home. As if he couldn't resist, he leaned forward, his expression almost shy, and added, "I've never seen you with your hair down." It took her a moment to place his tone because it was so extraordinary that it could not be true. He was..._flirting_ with her.

_Drip, drip, drip._

She remembered walking around Haxby Park, feeling the rail beneath her gloves, and watching him come closer. She was still playing hard to get; though they both knew it was a farce given that he knew about Pamuk. But he seemed to enjoy it then, the challenge of her. _So, shall we rescue her? Shall we give the house another chapter?_

_Drip, Drip, Drip._

When had he become someone else? When he pushed her into a wall, his arms caging her, gripping her wrist with a type of brutal strength, his words communicating the complete opposite–_I want to be a good husband, and for you to be happy, but don't ever cross me–do you understand? Never_. Still the pride of Lady Mary did not allow Mary to realize he was warning her. Warning her against a future that would include the small library, his hand around her throat, the other painfully squeezing her breast. _That's all I wanted, Mary...Well, not quite all_...

She knew now that there were two Richard Carlisles.

She didn't know whether she could deal with even one.

_Be cold_, she thought. _Be careful_.

She didn't know whether she had it in her to play Lady Mary; after the hard knocks of yesterday, last night, and this morning, Lady Mary felt quite banged up. She didn't _feel_ like Lady Mary. She felt like someone who would burrow under the covers for the whole of the day. But she had no choice. Richard never gave her any choice. Wasn't that the problem?

_He does whatever he pleases._

The cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley would have to do her best.

"Oh, I don't know, Sir Richard," she replied mildly. "I believe my hair was in quite a state when we last saw one another three years ago."

_Drip, drip, drip._

He looked down at his shoes. "Mary." She sensed his shyness, like a boy talking to his sweetheart, and that, more than anger or bitterness or threats, terrified her. Which Richard was this? Would he pull a bouquet of flowers from behind his back?

"Lady Mary," she corrected. _I don't want you to know me; I don't want to be known by you at all. _

"Lady Mary, then. _Please_–I'd like to come in and talk, just talk. I want there to be peace between us."

She recognized when he was being genuine. She remembered his proposal–_Because I think very highly of you...I think we could do very well together...We could be a good team. _He'd meant that. She had sensed that even with his newspapers waiting for him, he had wanted to stay, to hold on to her with his ink-stained hands but he did not know how to touch Lady Mary (at least not yet). He did not want to get on the train. He did not want to leave her. But he did not know how to stay either.

So she opened the door for him, as if in a trance. What more could this man do than he had already done? What more could he take than he had already taken?

She led him to the table and they sat. He placed his hat on his knee. She did not offer him refreshment. Bile rose in her mouth at the thought of showing him hospitality or generosity.

_He'd already taken what she had not given._

"So you're married," he began, still friendly, the lines on his face settled into his most appealing expression. "To Matthew. I suppose I'm not surprised." His laugh was self-deprecating, at his own expense, really. _Poor Richard who fell in love with the girl who always loved someone else. _ "I knew all along that you loved him."

"Really," she murmured, her face still, dark eyes unblinking. It wasn't a question. She wished she had a prop, like a tea cup or a fan, or even Granny's stick. On the surface she seemed placid, but inwardly she was struggling to keep the lid on the box with the small library inside of it.

He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I knew...but I hoped you would come to love me anyway, that you would come to see how much I loved you."

"And you are happy as well? With Lady Carlisle?" she asked, because didn't he understand that she was a married woman and he was a married man and to talk of love at all now, when he had barely been able to speak of it during his actual proposal years before, was utterly ridiculous?

She remembered walking with him, her parents just ahead of them. _I mean to learn how to do things properly and I'm sure you could help me a lot. _He was so earnest then, in his too-hot-for-walking tweed suit. She'd believed him at the time and he'd believed himself.

How dangerous they had been to one another.

He tilted his head, thinking about her question. "I wanted it to be you, you know," he murmured, his voice lowered intimately. She found her chest tightening, and wanted to pound her fist into the table; she wanted to break something. He was not following the rules. He was not following protocol.

_He does whatever he pleases._

_Cold and careful. Cold and careful. _She shook her head. "Sir Richard, I don't wish to reminisce with you over good times. Frankly, we didn't have many."

"I want to..." He had difficulty getting the words out. His jaw set and he had to look away from her. "I want to explain the way I behaved."

She was keenly aware that there was a difference between an apology and an explanation. But she wet her lips and spoke as if she weren't afraid. "Oh? Which time?"

"I shouldn't have sent that note, that necklace," he sputtered. "You're a married woman and I–I am a married man. It wasn't right _or_ proper." He looked up at her with what she was certain was intended to be an endearing expression.

_I mean to learn how to do things properly and I'm sure you could help me a lot._

Her mouth wanted to drop open. _That? _That _was what he needed to explain? _"I don't need any explanation about the note or the necklace. I hope Granny returned your gift to you and that Lady Carlisle was very happy with it. But a congratulatory note and the necklace was _not_ what upset me about that act, Sir Richard."

The words shot out of his mouth. He'd never been poised or controlled. Hadn't that been one of their problems? The self-made man with ink stains on his fingers, who talked about money, who spoke first and thought later? Wasn't that why, when they were engaged, she'd been constantly rolling her eyes at him in disappointment? "Is it so bad that I wanted you to love me? Should I be damned for it?"

_How easily the word came to his lips now. _

_Oh, I can talk about love and moon and june and all the rest of it if you wish..._But he hadn't been able to say it, not then, when he proposed, not to Lady Mary in her perfectly tilted hat and unblinking eyes and skin so smooth and unmarked.

She raised an eyebrow, clinging to any semblance of Lady Mary. Without her, Mary would fall to pieces and really that was what he probably wanted in the first place. She remembered telling Matthew: _I did not want to give him the satisfaction._

"Is that what _that_ was? That night in the small library? Was _that_ you wanting me to _love_ you?" It was an effort to unstick the words from her throat. She was sure that if she looked in the mirror after this meeting, she would have aged more than Granny. She only wished she had her semblance of control. She would settle for a semblance.

He looked down again, eyeing her bare feet. "At first, that night, I just wanted you...I thought I could show you how much I wanted you and that you might want me too..."

_He's lying, _she realized, _but the worst part is that he believes it_ _still. _

_How dangerous he was._

"You're rewriting history, Sir Richard," she said as calmly as she could, placing her hands on her knees to keep them from trembling. "I was ending things with you and you were very angry. When you came at me..." She stood and walked to the pitcher of water standing on the sideboard, pouring and drinking an entire glass before continuing. Perhaps it was a show of weakness, but her throat was too parched to continue. She finished the rest of her statement standing, the glass a pitiful shield between them. "When you came at me, it wasn't with _desire _or _lust. _You were enraged. You didn't caress me. You grabbed me by the throat."

_When I tell it, it's like it's happening all over again._

He did look up at her then, with so much feeling in his face she was more repulsed than ever. _God, did this man think he_ loved_ her? _She wanted to vomit. She would rather be hated by him than loved. And perhaps, one Sir Richard loved her and the other hated her.

"Is that how you remember it?" He asked it curiously, as if he really wanted to know, as if he really couldn't remember.

She dropped her glass. It didn't shatter but a part of it chipped. _He wants to know how I remember it when I have been remembering it, reliving it for the last three years. _

His voice filled with emotion. "I only know that...that I saw red. You made me so angry...I was so hurt...I lost control. I hoped after–that you would come to me."

She laughed, she held her hands over her belly and laughed humorlessly. She hoped her baby hadn't grown ears yet to hear this conversation. "Whyever would I come to you _after that_?"

"Because we'd been together that way, so no one else would have you. I'm not saying it was right," he added.

_You've made me a thing–to take, to have, to ravage. To do whatever you please_ _with._

"But you're not saying it was _wrong_ either." Now her laugh gained an edge. _A weapon, finally._ "You forget. You damaged already damaged goods. Or had you forgotten about Mr. Pamuk?"

His hands crushed the hat on his knee. He did not like to think of her with other men; he'd kept looking away from the ring on her finger. "I hoped you would come to me to beg for my mercy not to publish the Pamuk story. And then," he said, a curious smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "Then I realized, I might have gotten you with child."

"Oh?" she said faintly. Her heart began to pound. _Cold and careful. Cold and careful._

"When I left that night," he continued, his jaw set and hard, _"_and I got in my car, I hoped that somehow things could still work. I began to think, later, once I was back in London...a baby would bind us. I suppose that's the word. And you would have to come to me."

If she had still been holding the glass, she would have dropped it again. She found another, filled it to the brim and drank it down as if she could drown herself and end the torture of simply being in his presence. When she finished, she set the glass aside in case he said something else repulsive. "But I didn't come to you."

"No," he said ruefully, again with that little smile. "I had a man–I _am_ in newspapers, after all–keeping tabs on you for me. For six weeks you did not come. Then you left for New York. He showed me a copy of your ticket. I thought it was over, that there was nothing else to do, but I kept my man on the story. I wanted to be notified if you moved on somewhere else. I worried about you, you know," he said, his voice sincere. "A bit more than nine months later he informed me you'd given birth. For a moment, I thought..." He paused and pursed his lips. "But then you didn't come to me, so..." He sighed. "I also learned that your mother and Crawley traveled to New York around the same time. The child wasn't mine, it was _his_." His mouth twisted, his voice filled with disdain. "I told my man I didn't want to know anything else unless you either married Crawley or came back to England."

As he'd spoken, there was a moment, perhaps the most terrifying of her life, when she had thought he would produce the original birth certificate, the one with "Unknown" listed in the space for the father's name, from this man who had kept tabs on her. But no paper appeared and he apparently did not even suspect there was one. Perhaps she would survive this after all.

"Yes, the child is Matthew's," Mary said truthfully. She could have lied for her daughter, a duty borne of love. She would do it a thousand times over. Richard could open up every vein she had and she would still lie, and lie well. "I've always loved Matthew. It's always been that way between us. And now we have a daughter together." She almost said–and surely Lady Mary would have added–_And I am not sorry. _

He nodded, pursing his lips a bit. "When I saw the two of you the other day, holding that little girl's hands, between the two of you, I thought: God, Mary, what if that had been us? A little girl to go on walks with?" By the time he finished he was leaning forward, his voice earnest again.

She forced herself to shrug nonchalantly. She wanted to get out of this alive and whole. She had to turn it around somehow so she fell back on the thing she'd known all her life: propriety. "Well, perhaps you and Lady Carlisle will start a family soon," she said evenly, because she wanted this man out of her house, her home, away from the table where her daughter threw scraps to the dog. And she wanted to be standing when he finally did leave. _Cold and careful. Cold and careful._

Even without everything that had gone wrong between them, his sentimentality would have driven Lady Mary insane. She would have rolled her eyes and tilted her chin, especially when he said, sorrowfully, "But any family I have won't be with you."

She snapped. She practically heard the crackling of flames in her own blood.

_He **cannot **say whatever he pleases. _

"You're mad," she said with cold disgust. It didn't matter that her hair was wet, her feet bare. She could easily have been wearing a posh hat and gloves and holding her grandmother's stick. "You're absolutely mad. You _raped_ me." The word was raw in her throat, like trying to swallow a razor. She'd never said it so passionately before; it was always an admission, quiet, a whisper, filled with–what? Her own sense of guilt? But now her words were knives. It felt so good to have a weapon that she repeated it. "You _raped _me in the small library the night I ended our engagement. We didn't have many happy times before that, and I'll take at least some responsibility for that. But not for what you did to me that night. _Never_ for that."

His face turned red–in anger as if she'd slapped him. "Is that what you're telling people? That I _raped_ the cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley?" Now it was his turn to laugh humorlessly. "What a tale! Brava, Mary, brava!" He even applauded slowly, mockingly.

"Yes, you know, it's really something I want everyone to know about me. I've made it the headline in all the newspapers I own." It was her first bite (more than a bite) of sarcasm and she instantly knew it was a mistake.

_Not cold. Not careful._

_He can do whatever he pleases. But I cannot._

He shot out of his chair, tipping it over with the force of his movements, and stalked over to lean into her with his face close to hers. She took a step back and came up hard against the wall._This time I will scream, _she told herself. _I will fight._ Her vocal chords felt as if they'd seized up but she promised herself if he laid a hand on her, she would scream so loudly they would hear it at Downton Abbey. This time, she would at least be able to say, _I screamed._

"If you've told anyone..." he warned, his voice dangerous, cutting, their bodies centimeters apart.

"What if I have?" she threatened with false bravado. "What will you do to me?"

"To you?" he asked with a sneer. "Whoever said it had to be done to you?" Then he grinned.

_You have given me the power to destroy you._

_The children._

_Matthew._

He kept looking at her lips, as if he were planning to kiss her there against the wall, against her will, to do whatever he pleased. The fighting, the anger pouring out of her, aroused him. He did not want her cold nor careful. He wanted her undone.

_He does whatever he pleases._

Suddenly, the front door slammed open. "What in the hell are you doing here?" Sybil shouted, her throaty voice even deeper than normal. "You get away from my sister! _Immediately_."

He backed away, his hands in the air, his face open and innocent as if he'd meant no harm. "It's fine, Sybil," Mary murmured. "Sir Richard was just leaving." She had to stop Sybil's imminent tirade in which her sister would make it glaringly obvious that Mary _had_ been telling people. She very much did not want to anger Sir Richard, not now.

_Not the children and Matthew. Never them. _

_He's mad. How do I protect them from a madman? _

"Yes," he added. "I was just going. Good day." He picked up his crushed hat and walked out the door Sybil had neglected to close.

"What was he doing here?" Sybil cried, grabbing Mary's forearms. "Are you all right? Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?"

"Lying to me. Lying to himself. I don't know." She simply had to sit down so she slid down the wall to the floor. "You caught us at a bad moment. He was very cordial, affectionate even, until I brought up the word 'rape.' He didn't lay a hand on me." But she was shaking.

"That...that snake! I could kill him, I could," Sybil nearly shouted, her voice echoing painfully in Mary's head.

"You darling," Mary said weakly from her position on the floor. How could she still be parched? After all that water? "Thank you for being my knight in shining armor. But why are you here?"

"It's Edith." Sybil held out her hands to her sister. "You need your shoes."

Mary hurried upstairs for her shoes and dashed off a quick note to Isobel, asking her to take care of Gracie until Matthew came home. Then she grabbed Sybil's hand. "You cannot tell anyone about what you saw this morning. About Sir Richard."

"Mary..."

"Promise me, Sybil."

"I can't," Sybil said honestly, wiping tears–over Edith, over Mary–from her eyes. "Because I love you and you'd be _stupid_ not to tell Matthew all of this."

"I don't want Matthew knowing _any_ of this," Mary said, her voice wobbly, tears threatening. "Things are...strained between us right now and I just can't deal with Matthew's emotions over Sir Richard when I am trying to deal with my own."

Sybil hesitated, then nodded, but it was clear she thought Mary was making a huge mistake.

Outside, Isobel, walking Gracie in the pram, watched them leave. She had seen Sir Richard leave the house angrily, kicking one of the shrubs and finally stomping it to bits. She had tried to hurry, pushing the pram faster, to go to Mary but then she saw Mary and Sybil rushing out into a waiting car driven by Tom Branson. It took off with a spin of the wheels that tossed up a cloud of dust.

"Oh, Gracie," Isobel murmured. "Whatever is going on?

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><p><em>AN: Okay, so this chapter was written BEFORE I posted last chapter (at least the rough draft) and when I read all your comments I felt so awful because everyone wanted Matthew to come home, unable to work because of problems at home weighing on his mind, and pound on Sir Richard. And I knew that Matthew was not coming home! Seriously I felt awful. But anyway, about this chapter? What do you think of all this stuff that Richard is saying to Mary? Is he for real? What about his threats, not to her but the ones she loves? What do you think Sir Richard ultimately wants from Mary? Why does she even still matter to him? AND FOR THE LOVE, WHEN IS MARY GOING TO GET A BREAK FROM THE EMOTIONAL UPHEAVALS (first fight with Matthew now a very strange convo with Richard)? Love to hear from you. xx And hopefully you can enjoy it more on this Saturday afternoon._


	31. Chapter 31

_**This was posted last night but this website has been having so many problems. Hopefully you can view it now and alerts are being sent! **A/N: Hi! I am sorry for the delay in chapters. I know that I started posting like mad at the beginning of this story, due to be bored in bed and sick, and then I slowed down a bit (three chapters in one day was a little bit overkill) when I had a fever. Then my beta was sick and we slowed down a little more. And now, I will be honest. I still promise to update as often as possible. It's probably going to be an every other day thing. One day an update, one day not. Please know that reviews really do matter and make a difference for both my beta and me. Even if it's just, oh I hope you update soon, it reminds us that people are invested and so then maybe there will be an update two days in a row...But I am committing to every other day at the very least for now. Believe me, if I could post three times a day, I would. I give people Christmas presents before Christmas because I get so excited. :)_

_Oh, please know, this website has been malfunctioning like crazy (see help forum if interested) so emails aren't going out and weird stuff like that. I hope you all find out that this is updated! eek!_

_Oh, also PS, I know that Sybil is not technically Mrs. Branson (title wise, especially on English soil) but it's a term of endearment between husband and wife. :)Thanks to _**_Faeyero_**_, for being the beta on this chapter. As Bette Midler would say/sing, "You are the wind beneath my wings." Special shout out to _**_Faeyero's mom_**_ too. Furthermore, thanks to _**_Guenievere Eugenie_**_ (who I call _**_GE_**_) for her historical research. This girl knows anything about everything and if she doesn't she knows where to look. And I asked her some WEIRD questions and she was always game! After the chapter is over, I will explain everything she discovered (if you would like to know) but I don't want to ruin the chapter for you. :) As always, I look forward to your feedback xx_

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><p>Chapter Thirty One<p>

Sybil and Mary rode in silence on the way to Edith's. They held hands, pinkies, really, as they used to when, as children, Mary had led her younger sister around the impressive grounds of Downton. "Keep ahold of your sister," Cora always reminded her youngest daughter. And Sybil always did. If one of them stumbled over a divot in the ground, the other pulled her up, or else they both fell together and laughed at the grass stains on their dresses for which they would surely be punished.

Now, they held onto one another in the back seat of the car that Tom was pushing to the limits of its endurance.

Mary wondered where Robbie was, perfect little Robbie with his mother's coloring and his father's eyes and his Irish accent. Gracie would be finishing her walk with Gran, her hair curling sweetly in the humidity, her hands sticky with sweat, perhaps ready for a nap, falling asleep with her bum in the air. _I don't deserve you, _Mary thought toward her children, _either of you, _and touched her free hand to her own belly, only to realize that Sybil was doing the same thing. Sybil was undoubtedly thinking the same thing, as well: _Please, God, let Edith's baby live. _Over and over again, the sentence running into itself: _Please, God, let Edith's baby live._ PleaseGod, letEdith'sbabylive. PleaseGodletEdith'sbabylive.

The silence was oppressive. Finally, Sybil spoke. "Did I tell you that Tom is going to write that book?"

"No, you didn't," Mary replied as cheerfully as possible. "Well done, you!" She poked Tom in the shoulder.

"Don't brag, Mrs. Branson," Tom warned.

"I think I'm allowed to brag a little bit about my husband after all that talk of marrying a chauffeur," she scoffed mockingly for her husband's benefit, then turned to her sister, "but, Mary, it's the publishing company that owns the newspaper he writes for and they're paying him to take _months_ off to write!" Sybil grinned. "It means we'll be staying here for a few months, having the baby here too. I already went and saw Dr. George. We might even be here when you..."

The excitement died down. It was back to their litany. _Please, God, let Edith's baby live._

Tom pulled up to the front door, staying only long enough to usher the ladies up the steps before dashing back to the car to return to Downton, where Robert was watching his son (Mary assumed it was that which had Tom hurrying a bit more than usual). Inside, Sybil and Mary found Edith pacing the entry way. She looked awful, her always-pale skin now the color of old paper. There were bruises of exhaustion beneath her eyes. "What are you doing out of bed? You need to lie down," Sybil ordered gently, in her nurse's tone.

Watching Sybil go to Edith–Sybil so vital looking, her dark hair lustrous with health, skin tanned from the summer, her belly robust–Mary bit her lip to keep from gasping at the contrast between the sisters. And in that moment, though she tried to deny it, she felt she already knew the end of the story. When Sybil met Mary's eyes, she saw confirmation of her own fears there. Mary wanted to shake her head in denial. She wanted to cry out over the injustice of it all. But there was Edith to think of.

_Please, God..._

"No, you don't understand." Edith tried to shake off Sybil's hand, now grasping her elbow. Sir Antony waited a few steps beyond his wife, clearly lost, his one good arm fluttering, as if he would like to do something but didn't quite know what. "He's always moving, you see. I feel him all the time. Antony," she said, turning to her husband as quickly as an exhausted pregnant woman could, "you've felt him." Sir Antony blushed and nodded. "Once he even had the hiccups," Edith continued, smiled down at her belly and rubbing. But then she looked up at Sybil, her eyes so dark. "But he's stopped moving. If I move then maybe _he'll_ move."

"Please," Sybil implored. "Sit." Together, Mary and Sybil helped their sister into a chair. "Have you spoken with Dr. Clarkson?"

"He says...He says that it's normal, later in the pregnancy, for the baby to move less, that they run out of room." Edith grabbed onto Sybil. "But I'm only six months, just. So that can't be right. Can it?"

Mary felt the tension in Sybil, how badly she wanted to say that of course it could be right. Instead she could only silently rub her sister's back. Because it wasn't right. It wasn't right at all. Not at six months.

Mary knelt in front of her. "Edith, please let me call Dr. George. I know he will come. Even if it's just for a second opinion." _Because Clarkson is wrong. He is wrong. And I am afraid for you._

Edith closed her eyes. She did not feel very kind right now, nor very patient. Mary was an old target, but a target nonetheless. "It always has to be your way doesn't it, Mary?" she said bitterly.

"No," Mary pressed her lips together. "No, of course not, Edith. I am only thinking of you and Sir Antony...and the baby."

"I saw Dr. George as well," Sybil added. "He has a very nice, gentle demeanor and from a medical perspective I found him to be knowledgable." She slid her arm around Edith's shoulders. "This doesn't mean you're abandoning Clarkson," she reassured. "In fact, we'll call him as well."

"They can confer together," Mary implored. "I'm sure Dr. Clarkson would be open to a second opinion." _Remember? Remember when he said Matthew would never walk, never father a child, how he withheld the opinion of the doctor he himself consulted?_

Edith nodded. "All right. You may call him."

"Maybe Sybil ought to do it. She knows all the medical terms. " Mary tried to lighten the mood, even the smallest bit. "And she'll call Dr. Clarkson too, won't you, Sybil?"

Sybil paused in the doorway. "Edith," she said softly. "Do you want me to call Mama or Granny?" Mary heard the unspoken message in Sybil's question, and was certain Edith heard it, too: things could be dire, and she might want her mother and her grandmother close.

Edith nodded, her eyes still closed. "But tell them not to worry," she added.

The litany continued–_Please God, Please God, Please God. _

Edith sighed. "And what will you do, Mary? Tell me I should have listened to you from the beginning? Seen this Dr. George and not worn my damned corset?"

"I will do no such thing," Mary stated, squeezing Edith's hand, forcing any tears back. "I'm going to be here with you, my sister, and hold your hand. But darling, I really think we ought to help you to bed. You know sometimes how babies are, when you want to be still they move around like mad."

"You think so?" Edith asked, her pacing having exhausted her. "He used to...When I would try to sleep, he would kick and kick."

"I do," Mary replied. To spare Sir Antony his dignity with his lame arm, she added, "Why don't you wait for the doctors, Sir Antony, and then lead them up? I'm sure they'll be right along. And I'll help Edith to bed." Their pace was slow but they eventually the sisters accomplished their task. Mary propped an extra pillow behind Edith's back and took off her shoes, chatting all the while. "This is a lovely room. Did you pick it? You must have; you always loved light blue and cream."

"Yes, I picked it," Edith replied, rubbing her belly, as Mary rang the bell to ask the maid to bring water, a pitcher and glasses. "You never liked my taste."

"Well, I was young and foolish. It's lovely, really," Mary continued. "Are you hot, darling? Shall we take off your corset?"

"You're different," Edith replied, her tone confused, as if she didn't know whether to be accusatory or grateful. "You're different since you went away and came back."

_I had a baby and it changed me forever._

But Mary could not say that because she knew..._Please God, Please God_...a part of her knew that Edith would not be having a baby, not this time.

Mary laughed lightly. "I was a terror, wasn't I? Three years is a long time. I've grown up, I suppose."

"I think we were equally horrible to one another," Edith admitted. "I just wish he would _move_," she murmured.

"Let's take your corset off, darling. Do you want me to call your maid or do you mind if I do it?" Mary asked, giving Edith her arm to stand.

"You? Know how to take off a corset? You would deign to do that for me?" Edith questioned, raising her eyebrows at Mary.

"Of course, I would."

"I'm terribly fat, you know," Edith admitted.

"No woman who has ever been pregnant would judge you for that," Mary smiled, helped to lift the blouse, then take off the skirt. She undid the laces of Edith's propriety and stripped it off her, all while chatting. "Did I tell you that Granny and Isobel decorated our room?"

"What! Together?" Edith replied, shocked. "Those two?"

"Yes, of course; neither one of them will ever share how many fights there were over colors." Mary helped her back to bed. "Is that better?"

"It is," Edith admitted as she lay back against the pillows Mary had propped up for her. "What colors did they choose?"

"Gray and silver for Matthew and me. I like it very much." Mary sat on the edge of the bed, acting as casually as possible.

"And for Grace?" Edith asked. She had never asked Mary about Grace. It seemed as if, since Mary had returned, Edith hadn't wanted to see much of her at all.

"A sunny yellow. Very happy." Mary smiled.

"That's what we chose too," Edith said, her lips curving. "Because we don't know, of course, if it will be a boy or a girl. But I think it's a boy."

"Mother's intuition," Mary intoned, patting her sister's ankle, forcing a smile to her face when all she wanted to do was weep. And all the while, Edith continued to stroke her own belly, around and around, her face alternately fond and concerned.

_Please, God..._

* * *

><p>It went on like that until Sybil returned ten minutes later, the doctors arriving within the hour, accompanied by Sir Antony, who seemed anxious enough to forgo propriety and be in the room with Edith, at least for awhile. Then Mary remembered that he'd lost his first wife. She bit her lip to keep from crying out against the cruelty of it all.<p>

"Dr. George," Mary introduced. "This is my middle sister, Lady Edith."

_Please..._

"It's nice to meet you," Dr. George replied. He got right to business. "Nurse Branson, or rather Lady Sybil, has filled me in. And Dr. Clarkson has also included what information he has. But I'd like to hear it from you. You are the mother after all."

Dr. George's desire to hear from "the mother" appeased Edith immediately. She explained exactly as she had earlier. Mary nearly felt Dr. Clarkson wince as his own cowardly words were repeated. He'd known then. He had to have know. It took all of Mary's power to keep her eyes on Edith and not on Clarkson. She wanted to watch him squirm. She wanted to attack him with her fists.

"Well, what I would like to do first," Dr. George began, "is to find your baby's heartbeat."

"Edith," Mary squeezed her ankle. "Did I tell you Dr. George has six children and that he practiced on his wife all the time?"

Edith smiled wanly but when the stethoscope appeared she paled. "What if you can't find the heartbeat? What if he's turned the wrong way or something?"

"Then I'll wait and try again," Dr. George replied kindly. "And Dr. Clarkson can try as well." Dr. Clarkson, the head of a country hospital, did not look as if he wanted to try at all, edging further and further away from the bed..

Edith looked at Mary and then at Sybil. Sisters need not be best friends to communicate without words. Edith already knew the baby was dead; she was just hoping she was wrong. Mary rubbed her sister's ankle. Edith only wanted to prolong the moment when the hard thing really _became _true, which was fine, just fine with Mary, and with Sybil who brushed Edith's blond hair off her face.

_Please..._

Dr. George was very thorough. He searched for a long time, intently and seriously, every tick of the clock when he didn't say, "There it is," an agony but an _expected_ agony.

Dr. George briefly touched Edith's hand. "When was the last time you felt the baby move?"

Edith's mouth opened to speak but her lips began to tremble and she could not answer. She could not.

Dr. George glared at Dr. Clarkson until Clarkson finally spoke. "She called me a week ago." Dr. George immediately turned his back on Dr. Clarkson. He would obviously be useless.

For Edith's benefit, Dr. George took out the stethoscope and and continued to try and locate a heartbeat he knew did not exist.

* * *

><p>Violet and Cora arrived fairly quickly, considering. On the way over, Violet warned her daughter-in-law. "There will be no dramatics, Cora," she intoned seriously. "I want no hysterics from you. If you must...relieve your feelings, wait until you get home."<p>

Cora's eyes filled. "But Edith–"

"That," Violet snapped, "is exactly what you must _not _do when you get into that room. You _will_ be strong. You _will_ be stoic, yet loving. You will _not_ be emotional. You will _not_, in essence, handle this as an American. Your daughter is English and all of that..." she waved dismissively at Cora to demonstrate the pile of sentimentality her daughter-in-law was in danger of becoming "will be of absolutely no help to her. Do you understand?"

Cora's lips quivered as she nodded.

"Stop that!" Violet snapped. "This is not about you. Remember that. And if you must cry, do it before we arrive and in such a way that Edith doesn't notice her mother's ruined face when you enter the room."

Cora and Violet entered silently, though they made eye contact with Edith, it was clear that Edith did not wish to discuss what was happening.

* * *

><p>"What are you doing?" Edith cried as Dr. George began laying out implements on the side table he had moved to the bedside and covered with a towel.<p>

"I'm taking your temperature," Dr. George explained. "And then I am going to take your blood pressure."

"But why?" Edith began to cry now, slowly coming undone.

"Because the mother's health is just as important as the baby's," he replied. He put the thermometer in her mouth. Sir Antony held her hand. After a few moments he removed it and frowned at the slender glass tube. "You have a fever. And your blood pressure is not what I would like it to be."

"Just say it," Edith said, softly. "Please. I already know."

_Please..._

"I also cannot locate a heartbeat," Dr. George continued, not with pity but with a tenderness that seemed to make everything in the room throb with a silent anguish. "Nor can I detect any movement. Also, you yourself have said..."

"He dead," Edith murmured. "He's dead." Sir Antony closed his eyes, clutching his wife's hand.

_Please..._

"Yes," Dr. George affirmed quietly. "We need to induce labor. It's important for your own health." He did not bother to confirm this with Dr. Clarkson and Edith did not look to Dr. Clarkson for advice.

_There were no more litanies left to think, or speak, or say._

"How will this be done? I want my wife to have the best care possible," Sir Antony spoke for the first time.

"I will put your wife under anesthesia and then I will inject her with something that will induce labor–"

"What is it?" Sir Antony interrupted. Edith seemed strangely calm now that she knew for certain her baby was gone.

"It's an extract from the pituitary gland of pregnant mare. I know it sounds odd, but it is perfectly safe, much safer than letting Lady Edith continue to carry the baby," Dr. George assured him.

Dr. Clarkson stepped forward. "This is a comparatively new procedure," he protested. If Isobel had been there, she would undoubtedly have physically removed Clarkson from the room, recognizing those as the same words he had used to defend not using a treatment to save the farmer, John Drake, from dropsy.

"It is not," Dr. George insisted. His voice was hard enough to make Clarkson aware he ought to leave the room, but not loud enough to alarm his patient. "I've used it for years with safety and success and on my own wife, on her fourth pregnancy. It is not a new treatment and it is safe," he finished, looking at Sir Antony as he did. He was making a promise, something doctors rarely did.

"Do whatever you need to do," Edith said listlessly.

"Do you want me to stay?" Sir Antony asked her, squeezing her hand and leaning closer to her face.

"You can't," she whispered. "It is not proper."

"Lady Edith," Dr. George said, interrupting the intimate moment. "If it would help you...if you would prefer it...your husband can remain seated right there throughout the procedure. I want to do whatever I can do, however little, to help you."

"Nothing can help me," she said, her voice breaking, and she began cry. "But that's not how things are done in this family. Mama would have a fit."

"Edith," Mary said firmly. There was always something about Mary's voice that could cut through a room. "Do you want Sir Antony to stay? If you do, then he will stay. And we will _all _do whatever we can to help you. I am sure, if you would prefer Sir Antony to wait somewhere else...Well." She folded her hands in front of her. "He loves you. It's as plain as day. What's best for you?"

"Darling," Sir Antony whispered. The term of endearment sounded so strange coming from his lips.

"Will I feel anything? Will I be lucid?" Edith asked Dr. George.

"You will be asleep throughout the labor, as the contractions progress, and as I deliver the baby. I will bring you around then, and you will feel some pain. I will give you something for it." He paused, his tone gentling further. "Some mothers want to hold their child."

"I couldn't," Edith shook her head, tears streaming down her face.

"It's up to you, Lady Edith," Dr. George continued to comfort. Oh, thank goodness for Dr. George.

"Just start," Edith begged. "So it's over faster."

_Please._

Dr. George asked that the majority of them leave the room before the labor began. Sir Antony remained, holding his wife's limp hand as the medication took her under, his eyes on her sleeping face.

* * *

><p>Violet grabbed Mary's hand as she exited the room and dragged her through an open doorway down the hall.<p>

"What is going on?" she demanded to know.

"I thought Dr. George explained everything very well," Mary replied, a bit confused. Granny's hand bit further into her arm.

"No, not with that." Violet shook her head, grimacing. "With _you_–or rather, with you and Matthew," she insisted.

"Nothing," Mary denied.

Violet released Mary's arm. "Do _not _lie to me. I will not accept that from you after the confidences we have shared over the last three years. I know you and while it may perpetually irk _Lady Mary _to be known by anyone, I won't be lied to. What has happened with you and Matthew?" Her words bit like the lash of the whip. Mary decided she probably deserved it, but attempted to brazen it out.

"How do you know it has anything to do with Matthew?"

Violet twittered a laugh. "You forget, I watched your suffer over him for seven years."

"Do you think anyone else noticed? I don't want to upset Edith," Mary explained quickly in a whisper.

"No one has my powers of observation. Except maybe Isobel." At Mary's look of surprise she continued, "What? I am not a liar. I'm sure she's giving Matthew a talking-to right now as well. And if she doesn't," she said, gritting her teeth, "I certainly will."

Mary sighed. "We fought."

"About what?"

"I don't know if I can tell you," Mary murmured, her eyes filling with tears. "It's...private."

"Well let me go get you a pen and paper, and perhaps a stamp for you to write a letter. _Really_, Mary," Violet quipped.

"Before we married, I told him every detail of my associations..." she paused. "And I asked him about his. He was honest. He answered my questions."

"Ah," Violet said without pleasure. "So I wasn't wrong when I wrote to you of that twinkle in his eye."

"No, you weren't wrong." Mary found a chair and sat. At the moment, she felt older even than Granny. "He was honest with me but...he only _just _answered my questions, if that makes any sense at all. And, well, I ran into the woman completely ignorant."

"Who is she?" Violet demanded.

Mary smiled slightly. "You don't know her. Someone in the village...Well, we fought about that. But then it became something altogether more nasty. Suddenly we were ripping each other to shreds, picking on each other's weaknesses. We both said terrible things, Granny. Awful things. I don't know if he meant what he said," she finished, almost to herself.

"Did you mean what you said?" Violet asked archly.

"It depends on if he meant what he said," she replied stubbornly.

Violet laughed. "You know, from the letters I wrote you and which you burned," here she paused for Mary's nod, "that I loved your grandfather very much when I married him, and that he loved me. We were very passionate both in matters of love and in matters of disagreement. The first year of marriage was full of pleasure and pain. We said horrible things to each other, too."

"So, what did you do?"

"One day he came to me," she said softly, looking past Mary, eyes slightly unfocused, remembering, "and he said _You and I, Vi, we are very good lovers but not very fair fighters. _We weren't quarreling at the time so I was a little taken aback. But he went on, saying he'd thought it through. That if we had a valid argument we should no longer allow it to escalate until we were trying to cause one other pain. We would separate and come back to the issue."

"Did that work?" Mary asked. There was something so young and lovely about Violet's expression, especially in light of what was going on down the hall.

"For a time," Violet nodded. "Then one day we were in the middle of an argument and I turned to leave and he grabbed me and just held onto me. It was taken aback, but I found myself holding onto him. He said in a very matter-of-fact way, _I am not happy with you. _And I repeated the same sentiments. But we held onto one another, Mary, biting our tongues, because we loved one another, and we wanted one another more than we wanted to be right. After that, that's what we did. We started arguing less, because we saved our conflicts for the really important ones. One day, in bed-" Violet broke off as Mary gave her a look. "Don't make that face. I've written worse in letters to you."

"But never aloud," Mary protested, blushing slightly.

"You're a married woman. Buck up," Violet told her before continuing. "One night, _in bed_, he turned to me and said, _Vi, we are very good lovers _and_ very fair fighters._" She stopped and smiled, a suspicious gleam in her eyes. "How I loved that man."

She stood and pulled Mary to her feet. "You will make up with him. You will humble yourself and I am sure Isobel is telling him that he will humble himself. You're parents. You have a child. I know how important it is to you that Grace, and this baby as well," Violet gestured towards Mary's middle, "grow up in a happy home. You of all people know that takes work."

"I'll try," Mary promised, a bit begrudgingly. "I _cannot_ talk about Matthew when Edith is down the hall..."

* * *

><p>Later, after Edith's contractions started, Mary was summoned to the phone. "It's Mr. Crawley for you," Edith's butler announced.<p>

She did not want to talk to him, not after watching Edith belly ripple while she slept. She'd taken Granny's advice to heart and she would talk to him-but not now.

"Hello," she said hurriedly, unwilling to be away from Edith for long.

"Hello, it's Matthew." He sounded exhausted, and still hurt; his tone, though louder, was the same that he'd used to whisper to her that morning. _God, had that only been this morning?_

"Yes, I know. The butler informed me. What is it?" she asked abruptly, without emotion or expression in her voice. "I really need to be with Edith."

There was a pause. "Is everything all right?" he asked tentatively.

"No," she snapped. "It isn't all right at all."

"When will you be home?" he asked, again so tentatively. _Was she really so terrifying?_

"I don't think I will be tonight," she replied. "Matthew, I really must..."

"Was Richard here today?" he interrupted as if he couldn't help himself.

"Yes," she sighed. "Who told you?" She rubbed her belly. How much more stress could her body, could her baby take? How many more emotional upheavals?

"Mother saw him leave. What did he want? Were you hurt? Did he touch you? And Mary, I'm getting rather tired of these monosyllabic responses."

"I'm rather tired in general, Matthew. And no, I cannot go into details about that situation now because we have neither the time nor the privacy to do so." The butler was still hovering nearby. She could not say more. "I will talk to you about it...when I can."

"What can I do?" He asked the question married people were supposed to ask one another, _what can I do. _

"Nothing," she sighed. "There's nothing to be done." She was talking about poor Edith, but how could he know that? She softened her tone. "Just please, will you give Gracie a kiss from me..." She began to cry. "And tell her that I love her–that I miss her–and that Mama will be home soon."

"_Mary_." There was anguish and love in his voice. "I'll tell her. I love you."

"I have to go now." She paused. She did not want to say it but she remember what Granny had advised. "I love you. Goodbye," she added quickly and then hung up.

She squared her shoulders before walking back up the stairs. She rubbed her belly.

_Please God, help me to get through this._

* * *

><p><em>AN: I'd love to know your thoughts on the relationships in this chapter. Mary and Sybil. Mary and Edith. Dr. George and the Strallans. Dr. George and Dr. Clarkson. Violet's advice to Mary. Sir Antony and Edith. Matthew and Mary. What about Mary–one thing after another after another? Can she bear it? And what about Edith, poor Edith? Or anything you want to say or ask me. You don't have to answer me. I always reply if you have private messaging enabled! Sometimes I even give some special tidbits...'tis true. Whatever your thoughts of this chapter, I'd love to know. xx_

* * *

><p><em>If you want to know about the historical accuracies of this chapter, read on: Thanks to <em>**_GE, _**_research specialist, I was educated in many ways. __Anesthesia was used nearly universally by the 1920's (if you remember from Mary's letters she was not put to sleep but the reason for that will come soon enough). Well, that was the easiest digging _**GE** _had to do because then I had to ask her, how can we induce Edith, once Dr. George knows the baby is dead? And she came back with some very strange, but accurate answers. I'm going to quote her here because I am not science minded: "In 1906, extracts from the infundibular lobe of the pituitary gland were found to cause contractions; by 1909, these extracts were used to induce labor. By 1913, the extracts began to gain acceptance (specifically with obstetricians) as a hormonal labor induction method. As time moved on, adverse effects-like, uterine rupture due to large dosages and impurities in the extract-caused this method to be gradually discredited. However, no new labor inducement method was introduced until the mid-40s. So I think a forward thinking doctor of 1920 would use this method, as still a groundbreaking new method of the time. " So of course, now she caught my interest. I asked: where do they get this extract? And of course, _**GE, **_the star that she is, answered with: pregnant mare serum. OH, OF COURSE. So now you know, this is all very historically accurate. Although, I'm sure your main concern isn't that so much as Edith, I wanted it to be as accurate as possible. Thanks, _**_GE!_**


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: This chapter was both an easy chapter to write (it flowed right out) but a difficult one (in that I cried throughout and I normally don't). As always, thanks to the beta,_ **Faeyero**, _sometimes she gives me perspective. I literally finished this chapter, sent it to her, and said: does any of this make sense? And her reply was that she was crying. So fair warning. As always, thanks for your support and sticking through this difficult part of the story._

* * *

><p>Chapter Thirty Two<p>

The bedroom was dark when he woke up, quickly and completely alert, as was his habit since the war. He knew instinctively that it was late. He'd slept for some time but it was still black outside.

"Mary?" He could only vaguely make out her figure moving almost noiselessly about the room, and he rubbed his eyes to clear them. Hadn't she said she wouldn't be home?

"It's late," she whispered, as she would have to Grace. "Go back to sleep." But he was already sitting up and turning on the lamp beside his bed so that he could see her, however dimly. It felt like ages since he'd really seen her.

She looked as though she had been through a war. Her hair had fallen completely out of her earlier braid and was hanging about her face in tangles in a way he'd never seen before. Her face, from what he could see of it, looked exhausted and weary, like his face had used to look when he faced the dirt-smeared mirror in his officer's quarters after returning from some battle. Worst of all, there was blood on her blouse. He sat up quickly, throwing back the covers. "Are you hurt? What's happened?"

"Matthew–" she pressed her lips together to keep from crying, though it was already too late for that. "It's not my blood."

He was already out of bed, taking her by both hands and leading her into the bathroom where he could turn on the light and examine her properly. Apparently satisfied that she was telling him the truth, he sighed. "Whose–?"

She hung her head. She wanted to be held but did not know how to ask for that, with blood on her blouse and her last words to him so cold and mean and heartless. "Edith's baby was born tonight," she whispered, then lifted her head to watch him realize what that meant. Unconsciously, she placed her hands protectively over her own belly as she continued. "After the doctor...delivered him, Sybil helped him with Edith and I took him and washed him. He was ever so tiny, maybe a fourth the size Grace was. But he had ten fingers and ten toes. His eyes were closed as if he were asleep. There was hair on his head, fine and blond, like Edith's. I cleaned him up as they brought Edith around..." her voice broke and she began to cry into her hands.

"I didn't want them to. I know they had to, but I can't imagine waking up to _that_... Sybil went into his nursery and found the most lovely, soft blue blanket. The perfect baby blanket. And together Sybil and I wrapped him up."

As she spoke, Matthew was removing her bloody blouse. He took a cloth and wet it thoroughly, then began gently wiping the blood from her skin. "I thought–when we knew he was...not going to be born alive but he hadn't come yet, I thought that I would think of Grace or the baby I'm carrying, that those would be the things that would make me cry."

As she spoke, all the while he was removing her skirt and her stockings, laying them aside though he knew she would probably never be able to wear them again. He was silent, but she knew he was listening to every word. His fingers shook at times; he'd pause for too long over an easy button. When finally she was in only her underthings, he walked her towards his wardrobe.

"But when I was holding him–he was bloody, but they all are when they're born–and then I was washing him, and I saw he had these perfect tiny ears, all I could think of was _him_. This poor baby boy." She hardly noticed when he removed her underthings, then helped her step into a pair of his pajama bottoms and put her arms through the sleeves of the matching top.

"So Sybil and I wrapped him up. It was like he was asleep. Then Edith was awake and we asked if she'd like to hold him. She put her arm over her eyes. God, Matthew, I'll never forget it. She said _I can't. _But Granny was there; she'd been so quiet throughout the whole process. I knew she'd called Travers to come already. But I didn't know she was back in the room yet."

Matthew tried to button his own shirt on his wife with fumbling fingers that would not stop shaking. The last button, on the bottom, did not fit over the gentle swell of her stomach.

"Granny ever so gently removed Edith's hand from her face. She said, _look, look at your boy, _and Sybil and I handed him to Edith. We called Sir Antony in and then we left them alone for awhile."

He took her hand and led her to their bed, encouraging her to sit on its edge. She leaned her head into his abdomen as he stood in front of her. He tried to massage some of the tension from her shoulders. "But then we had to go get him. Dr. George said the baby–he would become cold, stiff, less–alive–and that it would be better if Edith didn't see him like that. So we went in and Edith kissed her boy. And then she handed him to Granny."

"And what did your Granny do?" he asked, tears in his own voice, as he pushed at her shoulders until she consented to lie down, and he tucked the blankets in all around her.

Mary closed her eyes. "Granny carried him into another room. I went with her. She told Travers–she said–_You must baptize my grandson. _His lip quivered a little; he was so afraid of her. And he said: _but you know he's already dead__. I can't–_And Granny, she was extraordinary really, cradling the baby. She just repeated herself, so clearly, the room was so quiet. _You must baptize my grandson so he can be buried with my husband, his grandfather. _So Travers did it."

Matthew climbed into his side of the bed and moved towards her. He gently rested his hand on her belly, his face against her neck. She covered his hand with her own. "I don't know what happened after that. Mama said she would stay with Edith, that Sybil and I, being...pregnant...really must sleep so Tom came and got us." She sighed, "Matthew?" she asked, puzzled, "why am I in your pajamas?"

"It seemed easier, faster, than pawing through your things," he whispered into her neck. His eyes were closed. "I'm so sorry, Mary. I'm so sorry."

Mary closed her eyes, as well. "They named him Patrick Antony. Mama said they should save 'Antony' for a first name for their next son..." Mary swallowed. "Edith just put her arm over her face again."

"Will there be...a funeral?"

"No," Mary whispered. "Sir Antony he said he couldn't bear it. That he and his wife would go alone. I always thought he was so boring," she commented, almost absently. "But he loves Edith and he loved that baby and he was very...strong. Considering. It makes me ashamed of the things I said about him." She turned in his arms, so his hand shifted to her hip and they lay face to face. "On the ride home, I felt so ashamed for the things I said to you the other night..." She began to cry again. "It was so stupid when I compared it to giving my stillborn nephew the only bath he'll ever have."

She began to cry in earnest now. At the same time they moved into one another, his arms tightening, her face pressed to his chest where she wept for a long time, until his pajama top was soaked through. He could do nothing but hold her. There were no words to say; they would come later. Finally, she pulled back to look at him, her hands caught between them. "I want to go back tomorrow, to be with Edith. I think I should and I want to. But I can't...I can't bring Gracie. Do you think your mother would watch her for me?"

He pressed a kiss to her palm. "Yes, I think Mother will watch Gracie for us."

"And, do you think–I know there is still so much between us, that we have to say, that we have to air out, but do you think maybe, you could just hold me? Like this? I might be able to sleep if you do. And just for tonight, after this awful night...maybe it could be like that fight never happened? I'm not trying to avoid it, I promise. I know we must talk," she was trembling in his arms now, "but all I can think about the bath I gave Patrick. God, Matthew, what if something happens..." her voice broke and she could not finish the thought.

"I will hold you just like this tonight, the whole night. And you'll sleep. And we'll deal with the rest later." He did not know if their détente included kisses to the forehead, so instead he simply pressed his nose there. She closed her eyes and fell into into a deep pit of her own exhaustion. Much later, after he'd worried about her and the baby she carried for a good hour, he gently kissed the top of her head, then fell asleep as well.

* * *

><p>Mary woke earlier than normal, much earlier, just as dawn was approaching. Instead of being burrowed in blankets, she was burrowed deep in her husband's arms. Though she was sure she hadn't moved a muscle, his eyes opened seconds after her own.<p>

"I have to go to Edith," she whispered, but she did not move. She realized that her toes had found their way up under the hems of his pajama bottoms and were warming themselves on his calves, just like normal. But there was nothing normal about this morning.

"I know," he whispered back. He did not move, either. It was as if either of them moving would cause the strange sense of temporary peace between them to lift. "But I need to say–"

"I know we have a lot of things to say to each other. And I promise, I'm not trying to avoid that. I know we have things to work out. I know I still have to tell you about Richard. But my sister...my sister. I have to go to her." And still she did not move.

"I know," he said, his face still pressed to the top of her head. Normally he would have stroked a hand down her hair to her waist, but they were not yet back to normal. "But I just have to say one thing. Just one thing, Mary. I cannot go another day without saying this one thing." He wanted to tighten his arms but he did not. Instead, he shifted his head on the pillow they shared so they were looking directly at one another. Their faces were very close and she was there of her own free will, listening.

"At first, in New York, after I fell in love with Grace–it was just days–I would go whole days forgetting that she wasn't mine. Then it was weeks. Then even longer. The only time I remember now is when I wake up in the middle of the night and can't fall back asleep because I worry that someday _she'll_ remember those eighteen months when I wasn't there, that she won't think of me as her Papa, the way I think of her as my daughter." Mary was crying now, silently, tears streaming continuously from her eyes down her cheeks onto their joined hands, that somehow, someway, had found their way to one another to grasp, to hold. His eyes were dry, not that he was unmoved by her tears, but because these words were easy, because they were the truth. "If we didn't have her, down the hall, or in the pram, or in the middle of our bed, something would be missing. I don't deserve her. If there was no Grace...I just can't imagine it." She blinked her eyes against the tears so she could see him clearly. She'd always known that he loved Grace, that he thought of her as a daughter, though she had not understood it. But she had not known the depth of his love, that he would worry that someday she might not think of herself as anything other than his daughter broke her heart and healed it at the same time. "And someday," he said, "_we _will tell her that she was the happiest baby and the most loved." He gave her own words from her letter to Granny back to her. "We will tell all of _our _children that."

She nodded; there was such a giant lump in her throat she couldn't have come close to speaking.

"So–you go to Edith," he continued. "I know you have to. And we'll work out the rest of it...when we can. I just couldn't go another day with you thinking..."

"I'm sorry for even saying it," she blurted.

"You said it because of the awful things I said to you," he said, looking her straight in the eye. "And I have much to apologize for. I wish–I wish I could say it all now. I want to..."

"But I must go to Edith," she whispered.

Still they lay there in silence, holding one another.

* * *

><p>Sybil and Tom collected Mary on their way to the Strallen house. Before putting the motor in gear, he turned in his seat to look at both women. "Now listen, my heart is broken for Lady Edith and Sir Antony and that baby. But you mustn't overdo–neither of you. You're both carrying precious cargo. Are we clear on that?"<p>

Though it was in neither of their characters simply to capitulate when given an order–especially by their husbands–they did. After last night, they all knew what was at stake. The sisters' pinkies reached for one another as Tom pulled away from the house.

"That's a lovely dress," Sybil murmured.

"Mama," Mary explained in a word.

"She's bought Robbie these ridiculous little suits that he will never wear," Sybil commented, laughing weakly.

Mary looked over at her sister, squeezed her pinky. "She bought Gracie a fur coat."

* * *

><p>Granny was standing guard on one side of Edith as Dr. George finished his visit with Edith when her sisters reached her room. "I want you to know, Lady Edith, that this was not your fault. You did nothing wrong." He paused. "I have six children, but my wife gave birth to one still–born girl. She did nothing differently than she had with any of her other pregnancies, and I monitored it in the same way. What I am trying to say is, mourn and grieve your boy. But do not take on any guilt." She nodded, a little dazed from the drugs they'd given her for the pain. Mary did not know if her pain was purely emotional or if it was also physical.<p>

Dr. George nodded at both Sybil and Edith on his way out.

Edith began to come around after they'd been with her for an hour. She demanded water but then did not drink it. Mary stood and walked to her. "Are you in pain? Do you want me to see when you can have your next dose?" she asked softly.

Edith looked up at Mary's face and then all the way down to her feet. Her face twisted into a disgusted expression, and her voice was filled with derision. "You're _showing_."

"Edith..." Mary began in a soothing tone.

"It's just like you to shove it in my face, your healthy, glowing, uncorseted pregnancy, monitored by Dr. George," she spat, her voice the meanest Mary could remember hearing. "How dare you come here, showing off?"

"She's not showing off," Granny said gently. "It's not something she can hide, Edith."

"_Leave_," Edith demanded. "I don't want you here, Mary. Nothing bad ever happens to perfect Mary." Her face hardened. "Enjoy your perfect life with your perfect husband and perfect daughter and perfect womb which probably, knowing how simply _perfect _your life has been, will give you a boy, a future earl." Her face twisted in pain.

Mary stumbled backwards a little, each insult felt like a slap, and while normally she might have borne it, it was so unexpected, and she was so weary, she found she could hardly stand up physically, let alone stand up to Edith's hatred of her. Granny caught her at the elbow and ushered her out without a word. She led her down the stairs and rang for her chauffeur. "I'm coming to your house and I'm watching Grace Violet while you sleep," she told her granddaughter, leaving no room for argument.

"Isobel is already watching her, but I've barely seen her for days, I should..." Mary was swaying with exhaustion, her head spinning slightly. Perhaps all the emotional upheavals were getting the best of her. _Perhaps _was an understatement.

"Then Isobel _and_ I will watch her while you sleep. I will not be moved on this, Mary. The last week has been...hellish for you. You look sickly and sad and alone...It's not good for you _or_ the child you carry. You will go home. You will go to bed. You will sleep." She paused, a small smile ghosting across her face. "And I will rock my granddaughter to sleep for her nap, as I have always wanted to do."

Mary could only nod in agreement.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I would love to know what you thought of this chapter–the good, the bad, the ugly. Or even if you are still there reading, during this kind of depressing dip in the story. Or if you hate me. But mostly, probably, you should stick to the story. xx as always..._


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: What to say, what to say? Grazie Mille to **Faeyero**, for her extensive help in this chapter. I knew that in having our beloved M and M fight so viciously that in order for the damage to be repairable, the make up would have to be just as brutal as the fight to begin with. YAY! So here it continues and will continue into the next chapter. Sorry for the late hour. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, especially the newbies. Remember if you have an account, I do respond to reviews. But seriously, you guys have been very supportive through a difficult part of the story. xx_

* * *

><p>Chapter Thirty Three<p>

Mary walked up the stairs wearily, feeling Granny's eyes on her back. Her steps slowed as she reached the top. _You're right, Granny, _Mary thought. _It's to bed for me. _

When Mary had come in, Grace had dutifully kissed her but then immediately turned to her great-grandmother, crying "Vi! Vi!" After the last few days of tension-filled rooms, her daughter's joy made Mary smile. If Mary had been worried over how Gracie was adjusting, she was reassured by the way Grace led "Vi" to show off her dog, her little hand tugging on Granny's expensive skirt. Apparently, Grace was transitioning as marvelously as her parents were transitioning poorly.

"Yes–Grandpapa gave Baby to you, I hear?" Violet asked her great-granddaughter, looking down at the puppy as if that were as close as she would like to be to it.

"Yes!" Gracie said happily, bestowing kisses to Baby's face until the dog could take no more and ran under the table where Grace could not reach her.

"Well, at least she's intelligent," Granny warbled, but it was the comment muttered under her breath that made Mary smile as she started up the stairs: "I have the stupidest son in all England...Maybe even Ireland, too."

When Mary entered the bedroom, she saw Matthew's pajamas on the floor in a pile where she had left them. For her own comfort, she scooped them off the floor and put them back on, hanging the dress that had been the source of such tension in the wardrobe. Her eyebrows rose when the last would not button at all. She had not noticed last night.

She wondered whether Matthew had noticed.

Finally, she tumbled into bed with a sigh. She pulled the covers up to her chin and lay staring at the ceiling, a lump in her throat. She wanted to cry for Edith–what she had said and, more, for what she was going through, for all the unprocessed emotions of seeing, speaking with, and defending herself against Richard, and for the hurt she and Matthew had caused one another. Here, in her own bedroom, in the dark and with the shades drawn, no-one would know if she cried. But she simply did not have the energy. Instead, she buried herself in blankets that smelled vaguely of Matthew and fell immediately into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>Matthew opened the door to Crawley House a short time later. Granny looked up from her her inspection of the stuffed menagerie Grace had piled around her and "Iz" on the divan. "What are you doing here?" she asked, as though she owned the place.<p>

"Matthew? Is everything all right?" his mother asked with concern.

"My boss cut his hand opening a letter and went to Clarkson for stitches. Apparently, Clarkson's pride is deeply wounded, and he told Carter about Edith's situation." Matthew lifted Gracie to kiss her mouth, which tasted of chocolate (not at all shocking with two grandmothers looking after her). He set her back on her feet to finish her task. "He sent me home. I told him it wasn't necessary but he insisted and gave me tomorrow off, too."

"Well, that's handy, since Edith gave Mary a horribly brutal verbal lashing this morning and demanded she leave the house," Violet stated as she patted the bunny her great-granddaughter handed her. "It seems you and your family will have tomorrow free to do as you please, since Mary is not allowed to grieve for her sister or her nephew."

"What do you mean?" Matthew asked, sitting in one of the chairs. Grace wiggled her way up onto his lap, where he cuddled her and kissed the top of her head.

"Edith is horribly upset at Mary. Unreasonably so." At Matthew's clueless look, Violet continued, "let me try and quote Edith for you; I think it will help you better understand your wife's morning. _Mary was showing off her pregnancy on purpose._ Edith demanded Mary leave and told her to_ enjoy her perfect life with her perfect husband and perfect daughter and perfect womb which probably, knowing how simply _perfect_ her life has been, will give her a boy, a future earl_."

Gracie wiggled down from Matthew's lap to go torture Baby. "She said all of that?" Matthew asked, letting her go. At Violet's nod, his eyes hardened, then just as quickly softened; he didn't quite know what to feel toward the combination of Edith's situation and her attack of Mary. "I know we must make allowances for Edith just now, but–" he blew out a sigh. He stood, began to pace a little in front of them, his hand over his jaw. "How much more can Mary take in a week? I'm worried about her; I'm worried about the baby." He turned to the two woman on the divan. "Where is she?"

"She's upstairs, sleeping, where she needs to be–and where you need to be as well. You look exhausted," Violet replied, looking up at him quite fiercely. "Now here is what you must do. And you will listen to me, Matthew. I've already lectured Mary. God knows the two of you do not yet know how to properly handle your own affairs."

"Really, Cousin Violet," Matthew began, his hands on his hips.

"Oh, do shut up," his mother snapped. "You revealed to me enough of the problems between you two that I think you really must hear Violet out."

"Thank you, my dear," Violet said, as the two woman shared a chummy smile.

Matthew opened his mouth, aghast at their teamwork. To decorate a house was one thing, to go see Sir Richard together was another, but to stand arm in arm against him...He had grown rather used to his mother defending him. Well. This was new.

"First and foremost," Violet began, rather primly, "you both must rest if you are to be at your best. You have a daughter who needs you," she continued, smiling at Grace, who was rearranging the animals on the divan according to some unknown hierarchy. "And you have a child on the way who needs both its parents to take care of themselves–and _each other_," she said emphatically. "Then you need to work out these...difficulties...between you two. And you cannot do _that _when you are both exhausted. You were in a war; you should know. How many battles can be fought on how many fronts when your own camp is a mess?" she finished, looking, despite her skirts, every inch the commanding officer.

He sat dejectedly in a chair, his face towards the floor. "So, she told you then? About the things I said?"

"She did not tell me specifics," Violet stated clearly, "and what she did say, I had to pry out of her. But it is clear to me from our talk that she does not consider herself entirely blameless for what transpired between you two."

"But it _was_ my fault," he muttered. "I handled the whole thing poorly from beginning to end and if she said anything hurtful, it was only in self-defense against my ridiculous accusations."

"Ah," Violet nodded. "That would explain so much." When Matthew looked to her for some enlightenment, she continued," I asked her if she had meant everything she said to you in anger, and she said," her lips took on a wry quirk, "_That depends on whether _he_ meant what _he_ said_."

Isobel laughed out loud.

Matthew could not help but laugh as well, though there was less humor in it for him since it was _his_ wife saying these things, and _their_ fight up for discussion.

"My husband and I...Well. We were very good at _some_ aspects of marriage," Violet pronounced with a twinkle, "but we never fought fair. And we had to learn how to fight fair. Because a marriage will always have conflicts."

Isobel nodded sagely. "Quite right."

Matthew ran his hands through his hair, messing up the back, a habit back from University when he had a difficult night of studying ahead of him. "So, how do you fight fair?" he asked wearily.

Isobel offered, "Sometimes your father and I had to go to our separate corners before we said something out of anger, something hurtful that had nothing to do with what we originally disagreed over."

"Try holding her," Violet offered in the most tender voice she'd ever used towards him. "It's very hard to say angry things, things you don't mean, to someone you love while holding them."

Matthew looked up from the floor to see both women gazing at him with curiously similar expressions of love, exasperation, and concern. Nodding, he rose and made his way upstairs without another word.

"Oh, young people," Matthew heard Violet sigh. "You literally have to lead them by the nose."

* * *

><p>As always, Mary woke by degrees. But unlike her typical wake up routine, this time she did not make it all the way to <em>awake<em>; she was simply too exhausted. Yet she was aware of a weight on the other side of the mattress, the sound of Matthew's feet sliding beneath the sheets, and his sigh as his head sank back into the pillow. "Matthew?" she asked drowsily.

He reached out a hand and patted some part of her (it was always hard to tell with the way she burrowed). "Go back to sleep," he soothed. "According to my mother and your granny, we're both exhausted and need a nap. And when we wake up, we'll talk and I'll apologize." He yawned. "You know, maybe they were right...suddenly I can barely keep my eyes open."

She reached out a hand, though a part of her, even in such a hazy state, felt as if she'd forgotten _how_ to touch him, and laid it on his shoulder. "We'll both apologize," she murmured, still half asleep. He would have lifted a hand to encompass hers but he was already asleep.

* * *

><p>Much later, Matthew opened his eyes and shifted. There was a weight on his chest and something was tickling his nose. It seemed that Mary had dragged her cocoon of covers with her, somehow drawing nearer to him even in sleep, seeking his warmth and–dare he hope it?–the comfort of her husband? Even after everything?<p>

He rubbed his eyes. All morning he'd gone over and over again the fight they'd had, the words he'd used, how she'd tried so hard to explain herself and her feelings (not an easy feat for her), how his half hearted apologies had sounded a bit like lame jokes even to him as he uttered them, how he'd tried to use Drew as a defense...and of course that was only the beginning. Somehow, his brain had switched off and any cruel thing he could say, anything that might hurt her or be a point of weakness, had poured out of him. He had not been trying to hurt her but he had–because he hadn't thought before he'd spoken.

He remembered a conversation in New York, how humbly, how carefully she'd apologized for her actions, going back ten years–for the garden party, for not trusting him to hear the story of Pamuk. It was one of the first real conversations they had since they had met again. She seemed ready to accept responsibility for her part in the mess that had been their relationship for the past ten years. Though she'd told him, quite accurately as well, how he had hurt her, he could not remember if he had apologized. If he had apologized, had he even known what he was apologizing for? Really? Knowing Mary as he did now, he was sure there was plenty of pain she had glossed over, unwilling to admit to any unnecessary weaknesses.

When his mother had told him about Richard's visit to the house, he'd been angry, of course. But the guilt was worse. She'd had to face the man, not just alone, but after the things he had said, her own husband who should be the one to protect and strengthen her.

His feelings, a mixture of fury and guilt, had not even completely materialized before he said as much to his mother, admitting they'd had their worst fight ever the night before and that he knew Mary had been hurt and he could not think what to do, knowing she faced Richard, alone, in such a state.

His mother had given him quite a talking to and little to no comfort. She was angry over Richard's visit as well, especially now that she knew of the small library, and to think of her son adding to Mary's difficulties, made it very difficult for Isobel to feel sympathy for Matthew. She'd pointed out several areas where he'd failed, going back ten years–the same pattern of self preservation when it came to Mary, the same hurt he expected Mary to bear. _It wasn't right then and it isn't right now, _his mother noted with that superior sense of calm she managed to maintain during any crisis, though it was clear anger was simmering beneath the surface. _You have to change these things, Matthew. I know you love Mary, but you must understand that your actions and words cause her pain, whether you mean them to or not, because she loves you. And consider Grace. You would never want her to be hurt by someone who loved her, to feel the pain Mary has borne on your account. Take everything, everyone else, out of the picture, _she demanded (meaning the entail, the war, Carlisle), _and consider what has transpired between the two of you these past ten years._ _What have you done or said that has hurt her? What would you do and say now, if you could, to heal those wounds you caused?_

If he'd expected his mother to absolve him of his guilt, he was terribly mistaken. Because suddenly he was remembering the garden party, how there had been something in her face, how haltingly her words had come. She had not been calm or cool. She had been terribly upset. He had seen it and disregarded it, too immersed in his own pain to ask her what was _really _wrong. What had she said, with tears in her voice, lips trembling? _So I've ruined everything? _

Then he'd gone to war and met Lavinia, the furthest thing he could find from Mary in looks and demeanor, and proposed. Why? Because he had loved her? Or to heal some self-inflicted wound? If he had really loved Mary as much as he claimed he had, he would have demanded answers that day, while her lip trembled and her voice was full of tears and pearls hung around her neck. He would have let her speak. He would have moved towards her instead of away.

The bundle on his chest shifted–the beginning of her typical wake-up process. He felt her hand rise to rub against her nose, her soft sigh against her chest, and then the tentative lift of her head as she turned her face towards him, still unable to open her eyes, like a newborn. "Matthew?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

"No, it's your other husband," he said, stroking her hair. She could not help leaning into his touch; she was not yet completely conscious and aware of her own movements. "The nice one. Who says loving things. And is kind."

"Oh, him," she murmured with a sigh. "He's awfully boring. Lady Mary would tear him to shreds."

"You just finish waking up and then we'll talk," he whispered. "Take your time."

She did. She obviously did not remember crawling to his side of the bed and laying her head on her chest, because as she woke further, she became embarrassed and began to ease away from him. "Please don't," he murmured into her ear. "Your granny said that when I apologize I should be holding onto you."

She smiled wanly. Her paleness worried him. "She told you that, did she?"

He moved so that they lay in the center of the bed, shifting her in his arms so they were face to face. "I was given a stern talking-to by my mother and Cousin Violet."

She smiled again and it broke his heart to see that the smile did not reach her eyes. "I had one from Granny."

"I want to apologize," he said softly, "For many, many, many things. There are so many things that I think, maybe, if you can, you should let me finish before you say anything. All right?"

"But, Matthew, I need to–"

He shook his head, tightening his arm around her shoulders. "A lot of what I am going to apologize for, you've already apologized for your part in, in New York. You were honest and upfront. I was not. Please. I know it's a lot but if you could just listen..."

She bit her lip. "All right, but if I start to cry..."

"It's the baby," he finished for her, smiling a little. "I know." He wanted to kiss her forehead then but settled for brushing her hair away from her face, just to touch her, just to be able to touch her.

"To begin, I'm sorry for that day at your parents' Garden Party, ten years ago. I could see something was wrong–I knew something else was going on. But I was hurt, and all I could think of was me, me, me. I loved you but I did not love you well enough to ask, to even give you a moment to say your piece."

She lifted her eyes to his; her mouth dropped open. She remembered apologizing for her actions and words that day, back in New York, but she had not expected him to know, to recall, how much pain she had also been in.

"I'm sorry for staying away so long, after I enlisted, and then for coming back with another girl on my arm. I asked Lavinia to marry me, someone so unlike you, because I could count on her to love me more than I loved her. I never wanted to feel the way I had felt with you, loving you more than you loved me, I thought–and that was my own fault. I didn't fight for you or for us–and I didn't give you the chance to fight, either. Instead, I tried to replace you. I tried, but, Mary–" he smiled sadly. "I couldn't. I never could."

She wept soundlessly, and he tried to wipe the tears away with his thumbs, but they only continued to come.

"I'm sorry for all that talk of friendship when it was not friendship I felt for you–and for placing the responsibility of looking after Lavinia, your inferior replacement, at your feet. That was very wrong–and it was thoughtless."

She closed her eyes. She could remember the feeling of his cheek beneath her lips as she wished him _such good luck, _how much effort it had taken to stand as the train drove away, how she had sat for two hours until she thought she could make it home without being sick.

"I am sorry, infinitely sorry, because if I had lowered my own guard and admitted that I loved you–God, Mary...would there have ever been a Richard Carlisle in your life?" His voice shook, and his arms tightened around her protectively.

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it when he continued. His blue eyes were filled with so many emotions as he tried to find_ a new word for sorry_. She felt she could not breathe and look into those eyes at the same time, yet she went on looking and listening. It hurt. God, this hurt, hearing him talk of these things, even in apologizing. But what had she said in New York? Maybe it is like lancing a wound, necessary pain to ease further suffering.

"I'm sorry for never thanking you, or articulating what it meant to me, that you were there when I came back wounded and...we thought I would never walk again." He swallowed hard. "I don't want to speak against her, but Lavinia cried all over me and _I_ had to comfort _her_. But you sat there and spoke to me like–like you always had, and you never let me see you cry. You never made me feel badly for blubbing. Or being sick. You were my nurse and my comforter and I never even said thank you."

He closed his eyes, feeling the tears burn against his eyelids as her toes crept beneath the hems of his pajama pants, warming themselves against his calves, the calves that were never supposed to work again. _Her frigid, wonderful, forgiving toes,_ he thought.

"And then...Carlisle." He felt her tense and now, and pressed a kiss to her forehead, holding his cheek almost desperately there. "I'm sorry that I didn't tackle him to the ground the very first time, or _any _time, I saw him put his hands on you in any way other than a tender one, or heard him raise his voice to you or speak to you in a condescending manner. I watched and I did nothing. I felt I had to keep a promise to Lavinia, even though I could see that, Mary, you were dying from the inside out. I just thought: _well, it's Mary, she can handle it; she can handle anything._" She buried her face in his pajama top now, her arms sliding around him so that she was holding him even as she was held.

"I'm sorry for the night we danced–not that it happened, but that I blamed you for it. I asked you to dance. I drew you closer, knowing we couldn't...I flirted. It was _I_ who kissed _you_. And then I blamed you for Lavinia's death, as if that could erase my own guilt. I know I've already apologized for what I said at the funeral but that was so very wrong. And it was the first time I said something with the intention to hurt you. I thought if I could share the guilt with you, I would have less for myself." Her nose found the curve of his neck, her favorite spot, burrowing closer.

The room was very quiet as he unburdened himself of the most painful confession of all. "Mary–" he said, haltingly. "I'm sorry that the night...the night of the small library...I'm sorry I wasn't there. Your Granny was worried, and I–laughed. Again, I thought: _it's Mary, she can handle sacking Carlisle. She can handle anything. _And a part of me, though I had no claim to you, was gleefully happy that you were disposing of the man. If I hadn't been so damn _smug_ about–_winning_ somehow...I might–God, Mary–I might have gotten there in time to stop him."

She had been crying for a long time now. She had not realized how far back they were to go, but she had done as he asked and not interrupted. But now she had to speak. "Matthew, what happened that night is not your fault. I _need _you to know that."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. She didn't understand. "I teased him. I pushed him. I knew he was jealous of our relationship and though I had already _said _there could be nothing between us, my actions spoke otherwise. I had pushed you away, but I was constantly pulling you towards me and away from him."

"And I went," she cried passionately, taking his face between her hands so he had to open his eyes and look at her. "_Any_ excuse I had to be near you, I took, even after what you had said at the funeral. I wanted to be near you even if that meant I couldn't be _with _you. Does that make the small library my responsibility?"

He sat up with her, took her by the shoulders. "Of course not," he said vehemently. "Mary, no–_of course not_."

She shook her head, her long dark hair falling in waves. "Then, if you will not blame me for my actions, you must not blame yourself for your actions either. Not when it comes to this. I will take your apologies and accept them and forgive them. But not this one. This one I do not accept."

For a moment, he leaned his forehead against hers. Only for a moment. She wrapped her arms loosely around his waist. But he had more to say.

"Well don't worry," he added sardonically. "I have plenty more you will take." He leaned back against the pillows, taking her with him to cuddle against his side. Somehow, the atmosphere in the room had shifted, seemed a bit lighter–and so did he.

"I'm sorry for not listening to your wishes in your letter to the family. I didn't think. Well, if I did think, it was of myself and my own helplessness. I thought if I found you...but now I wonder, if I had given you the time you asked for and had gone to New York a few months later than I did, would you have seen me then? Would I have been able to be a part of Grace's life from the very beginning?"

She did not know either, so she could not comfort him. She could only watch his face as he struggled through the most recent events.

"I'm sorry for not telling you about Gretchen. I could have. You asked without judgement or condemnation in New York. But I was cowardly. I didn't want to admit that again I had thrown myself into the arms of some woman, wholly different from you, as if that could heal me. I hated myself when I was with her. I didn't want Gretchen to exist, so I didn't explain. You explained much more emotionally difficult things with a great deal of grace and I was a coward."

He could feel her tears against his shoulder as she nuzzled her face there; he kissed her hair and went on. "I'm sorry for letting you walk into the bakery without knowing... I know you said there was nothing for me to do, but I wish there had been. And then after, in that horrible conversation–I'm sorry for not sincerely apologizing, for refusing to see your point of view, for bringing up Drew, and then worst of all for lashing out. For lying–for what I said about our wedding night. It wasn't true. It was only you and me in that room that night and it's only been you and me anytime we've been together," he said passionately. "You've trusted me completely. And I lied to you, hurting you, to take the focus off my own failings."

She moved away from him, not far, but enough that she could bend at the waist and press her hands to her face to keep from sobbing out loud, because that accusation had been the one to hurt worst of all. She allowed him to rub her back as she shook, though he hardly felt as if he deserved the privilege.

He tried to lift her chin, to remove her hands from her face, but she was resistant, so he settled for grasping her elbows as he faced her. He would never force her. "Finally, I _need _you to know that I _know_ that what happened to you will never go away for you completely. I've always known that, from the moment we found you there in that room." His next words were viciously angry. "I hate that. I wish I could do anything to change it so that you didn't have to live through it and remember it." His tone softened, went tender as he stroked her hair. "But I don't blame you for it and, Mary–I never, ever have, I never could."

Finally she lifted her face to look at him. Her eyes were sparkling with tears, her face was swollen from crying, and her nose was red. But at that moment, she was beautiful to him because she was looking at him, she was listening to him, she was already forgiving him. Now he took her hands. "When I think of what happened to you, and the woman you are, the _mother _you are, the _wife _you are...Mary, I don't think people tell you this enough. _You're astonishing_." His voice rang with sincerity. "_I need you to know this. _The woman you are in spite of what happened...Well, it's not at all difficult being married to that woman. It's the best thing that's ever happened to me. The fact that you've given Grace to me–that is something I can never repay. And when I think of my life without either one of you..." His eyes finally began to fill as he took her face in his hands, stroking her hair. "You're all I've ever wanted. You need to believe me."

"It's hard," she said brokenly, "for me to believe that anyone would want me that much, would want Grace and me that much, considering," she closed her eyes and willed herself not to think of the small library. "But I think...I believe you do," she murmured at last.

"I do," he replied passionately, brushing hair away from her face. "I do."

"I'm sorry too," she cried. "At the Garden party, when I–"

He held a finger to her lips. "Mary. Everything that has taken me months to apologize for, you've already spoken to me about. I've forgiven you. In New York. Before anything began again with us. You don't need to apologize again."

She nodded. His fingers moved from her lips to her hair, until his hand was entangled there. He leaned forward slowly to kiss her, giving her the opportunity to push him away. But she did not. They kissed as they might once have done if they had been engaged ten years ago, all tentative lips, and hands that only dared to touch faces or shoulders, kisses that were not a prelude to anything else, kisses with soft lips and no pressure, kisses that would have been shared behind a tree where no one could see, or quickly while Carson had his back turned if they were brazen enough, youthful kisses, the kind of kisses which are always full of hope.

"I love you," he whispered against her lips. "I always have, not very well, but I have. And I always will." He smirked a little. "Your granny promises to show me how to be better."

She laughed through her tears. She knew she looked awful. And somehow she was tired all over again. "Matthew–everything you've apologized for, I forgive you. It's gone and done. I don't want our children growing up in a house where people hold grudges. I want them to grow up in a family where when someone says _I'm sorry _and means it, that apology is accepted and the action forgiven."

_Our family. _He kissed her forehead."All right–though I don't deserve it."

"That's the point," she said, grabbing his wrists, that belonged to the hands that still held her face. "You don't deserve it. And in New York, you forgave me for things I didn't deserve to be forgiven for. Just like you forgave me yesterday morning for the things I said in anger. It's called grace." She smiled. "We never deserve it. I think that I–that _we_–need to practice both the giving and receiving of grace because how can we expect our children to understand the concept when we fail to be gracious to one another?"

He nodded, his eyes serious.

"Now I know we just napped but...I am still very tired. Is it really all right that they are watching Gracie all this time?" Mary asked, clutching him a little as they sank back into the bed, no longer leaning but lying in one another's arms.

"They told me that if they saw you come downstairs, they would have my hide. _Make up and rest_, your granny, the general, commanded me." He sighed, closing his eyes. "I'm exhausted," he said.

She poked his side. "Well, you did just make a long speech."

He turned his head so that their foreheads and noses were touching. "I feel so much better though, Mary. Not just because you've forgiven me but because when things aren't good between us...I've missed you," he finally said, cradling her closer, and she whispered the words back into the curve of his neck.

He cuddled her for a moment, then began to lift and pull at the blankets, tucking them around her, his hands taking up the task seriously.

"Whatever are you doing?" she asked with a watery laugh.

"I'm helping you to burrow," he replied as if it were obvious.

"I don't burrow," she retorted with mock offense.

"Mary," he smiled. "You're like a mole when you sleep. You practically dig tunnels through the bedding."

"A mole?" she cried. "A mole? You're comparing your wife to a mole?"

"A lovely mole, the loveliest mole," he whispered, kissing her brow, and encasing himself, along with her, in the cocoon of blankets.

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><p><em>AN: I am very curious as to what you think about this chapter and what you think about the state of M and M's relationship. Very curious. As always, I love hearing from you. _


	34. Chapter 34

_A/N: So you'll NEVER believe what this chapter is about. See, Baby (the dog) gets loose and Molesley has to think of several high jinks to get the puppy back. Just kidding! Thanks to the beta, **Faeyero**, who is da bomb and to whom I dedicate Matthew Crawley's shoulders, in this chapter at least. ;) Thanks for the reviews, from new and old. Thanks especially to URMYSTICK for waiting very patiently for *this* chapter and not even complaining once on how long it took M and M to work things out._

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><p>Chapter Thirty Four<p>

When Mary woke again, it was dark. She peered at the clock but was unable to read it, since it was on Matthew's side, so, sighing, she stood and walked around to his side of the bed. If not for her growing belly, she might have been able to lean over him to check the time, but her lithe frame no longer existed and this was now a maneuver that would wake him (and embarrass her). The clock told her it was a little past midnight and they'd slept deeply for at least eight hours. How necessary those hours had been. The curtains had kept out whatever sunlight they missed and now the moonlight, too.

But her eyes were already adjusting to the lack of light and she was interested in the sight before her. She was never allowed the pleasure of watching Matthew sleep. He almost always woke before her or, if he didn't, at the slightest bit of movement on her part, his eyes would open, bright, blue, and aware. Now he lay on his back, his pajama top riding up, his pants low, so that even in the darkness she could see the blond hair that curled around his belly button and down below his waistband. She was famished, in more ways than one, and had to make a decision: go downstairs for food or wake Matthew and try to get over all these newfound fears of physical intimacy she seemed to be experiencing at the moment.

She looked down at his face. His hair was a mess from sleep. His lips...

His eyes opened and immediately focused on her. "Mary?" he asked, concerned, sitting up and taking her arm (how did he do that–wake up so quickly and so well?). "What's wrong? Is everything all right? The baby?" He moved over immediately so she could sit on his side of the bed.

Her hand moved to her belly. "The baby's fine," she whispered–the dark seemed to call for it. "I just couldn't read the clock."

"Oh," he sighed. He lay back down but did not close his eyes.

She walked back around to her side of the bed and slid beneath the covers, then moved nearer to him and turned on to her side.

She _was _famished. But she did not move any closer to him or leave him for food. She sighed, a bit longingly.

"What?" he asked, turning on his side as well.

"Nothing," she replied, which was a lie.

He closed his eyes so he must have believed her and why wouldn't he? He would never have able to imagine the things she was trying to work out in her mind, the things she was trying to get up the courage to say.

He opened his eyes a few minutes later. She was still watching him. "You're not sleeping," he said quite obviously and maybe she imagined that there was a bit of hope in his voice? Because what did they normally do in a bed if they weren't sleeping?

But she could not remember how it went, like a song half remembered; she knew the melody but the words were confused and jumbled in her mind. Did he reach for her? No, he wouldn't. Not now. Did she reach for him? She couldn't.

"Matthew," she said, her voice still a bit scratchy from so much sleep. "Have you ever–" She paused. "I want you to know that I've never thought of either Pamuk or Carlisle when we've been together, not even once."

"I know," he replied softly. They both had known that this conversation would be inevitable and necessary. But they'd needed a break between this conversation and their earlier talk. "What I said, it was wrong and untrue."

"All right," she replied, her voice still hoarse. She did not sound like herself and she did not feel like herself either. Maybe it was everything he had said earlier, or maybe it was because she was thirteen weeks pregnant. But she felt bold. Bold enough to ask, "Have you–have you ever thought of her?"

"No," he said emphatically, passionately. "Not ever."

"But...what I mean to say is–how can you not think of her when we're doing all the things you first did with her?" She did not break eye contact. She was not afraid. She just wanted to understand. He knew everything about her when it came to these things. It was only fair that she knew everything about him as well.

He slid a hand over her hip to curve around her waist. "When we're together, Mary, all I'm thinking is that I love you, I want you, and that I must have you...and then it's all a blur. I want to show you much I love you. I want to give you pleasure more than I want it myself," he admitted brazenly, his face inches from hers. "I really don't think I can even explain it fully. It's completely inappropriate to admit really, I've wanted you since the first time you walked into Crawley House and I made a fool of myself. And maybe I shouldn't say this–but even when we hated each other, I wanted you. When I thought, when I fantasized about being with anyone that way, it was always you, Mary. And then I fell in love with you and it was even more...consuming. Yours has always been the only bed I've ever wanted to be in." His hand caressed her waist and the curve of her hip. Every few moments his fingers, urged her a bit closer to him. She remembered their infamous dance and smiled. "Why, when I'm finally where I've wanted to be, would I think of or consider any other?"

She took her hand and slid it beneath his pajama top so that her palm rested over his heart, and felt it begin to beat faster at her touch. "How did it work?" she asked curiously.

"How did what work?"

"Well, when you were with her, did you stay the night?" Maybe she ought to be ashamed for what she was asking and how plainly she was speaking, but she wasn't. She wasn't trying to make him uncomfortable, either. She just wanted to _know_.

"No. God, no. The bed was hardly big enough for one."

"But what if"–she drew her bottom lip into her mouth for a moment as if considering the wording of her question–"it was the largest bed in the world. Would you have stayed over then? Would you have cuddled with her after, like you do with me?"

He found it did not upset him that she was asking these things; he knew her well enough to know that she needed to know. "No, Mary."

"Did you ever fall asleep inside of her and then wake up wanting her again, like it is for us sometimes?" she asked in whisper, her eyes unblinking, her hand warm against his chest. His heart began to beat more rapidly and instinctually she knew it was not out of nervousness but out of desire for _her, _for Mary.

"No," he said huskily. Though he knew they were healing this wound between them, he also was certain something else was happening between them as well, something he hoped, dearly hoped, he was right about.

"Did you ever turn to her afterwards and ask _do you think we've made a baby__?_like you did with me?" She slid her other hand up the bottom of his shirt so it lay flat against his belly, feeling the hair there beneath her palm.

"No," he said definitively. "I never did."

For the first time, her boldness failed her a bit and he could more than sense the anxiety in her next question. "What if it had happened anyway?"

"It wouldn't have," he replied simply.

"How do you know?" she asked, quirking her eyebrow, and he wanted her, despite all this talk of Gretchen–and he thought, _hoped_, that she might want him as well.

"Because–God, Mary...how explicit do you want me to be?"

"Explicit," she said in her Lady Mary voice.

"I never–finished...inside of her," he admitted, a slight blush staining his cheeks.

"Never?" she asked, raising her eyebrow again.

"Not ever," he promised.

"Then how did you–?" It was pure interest that had her asking; she'd never heard of such things before, let alone spoken of them.

His blush intensified. "I'd...on the sheets," he said, sounding as if he were choking on the admission.

"Oh," she said thoughtfully, as if she'd never considered that. He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. "So then you would clean up and go?" she asked.

"Yes," he admitted.

She continued stroking his stomach, obviously still thinking. He was a bit alarmed at where her next question would take them.

"What about kissing?" she inquired.

"What do you mean, 'what about kissing'?"

"Well, how did you kiss her?" she clarified.

"Mary." His blush worsened. "We rarely kissed."

"But you did kiss?"

"It was more about...getting down to business, really," he admitted.

"But you did kiss her?" She bit her bottom lip again, and he had to shift away from her a bit so she would not feel the extent of his arousal, over her hands on him, her fingers playing with the hair on his belly, her palm over his heart, the eyebrow she kept raising. "How did you kiss her? Like this?"

She leaned forward and rather sweetly pressed her lips to his, but the kiss deepened immediately, their mouths opening for one another as if they'd been starving from their self inflicted fast. Soon her hands were not flat against his chest and belly but clinging to him, one sliding around his back, the other up to his shoulder. After a minute of pure pleasure, she pulled away just the tiniest bit and licked her lips. She could taste him there. Suddenly, she was remembering the words to that song she'd thought she'd forgotten.

"No," he answered hoarsely. "We never kissed like that."

"What about this? Was it like this?" She leaned forward and sucked on his lip, drawing it into her mouth, grazing her teeth along it and then soothing it with tongue. Though he understood she was running the show, he couldn't help but return the favor before she pulled back, gasping, remaining close enough so their noses were nearly touching.

"No," he said, panting now. "Not like that either."

"Then how about like this?" Her hands gripped his shoulder and back, bringing them closer so nothing was hidden at all anymore. She tilted her head one way and then the other, as if considering her approach, before diving in, her mouth a fever on his, using her teeth and tongue and lips until he groaned into her mouth and she pulled a few centimeters away, feeling triumphant.

Matthew felt like he was going to explode and could barely form the words to answer. "No. We didn't kiss like that."

"Then how?" she asked, breathing heavily, pushing her lower half completely against him so they were center to center. They both wanted to moan, but neither one gave in.

"I could never kiss you the way I kissed her," he admitted finally as he let out a long breath, trying to release some of the desire he had for her so he could at least formulate a sentence. "Every time I kiss you it's like falling and wanting and needing all at the same time." Now he raised his own eyebrows. "How did you kiss Drew?" he asked. "Like this?" His hand slid beneath the back of her pajama top to pull her impossibly closer before he nibbled on her lips, then soothed the tiny, glorious aches with his tongue, until she moaned and lifted her leg over his hip.

It was her turn to pant now. "No," she said. "I didn't kiss Drew like that."

"Like this, then?" he asked. This time the kiss was slow and sweet, and it dragged on and on. Every time she thought he would pull away, his lips captured hers again. Her own lips felt swollen and her belly felt full of butterflies and meanwhile, he was rocking against her, stroking himself against her center. She clung to him.

She put a few crucial centimeters between their pelvises to enable her to get her words out. "No. Not like that. I guess I can't kiss you the way I kissed him, either–because I could never have kissed him the way I kiss you. I loved you even when I was kissing him, you know. I hated you because of that," she admitted so seriously it felt like a confession.

"Mary," he murmured, smiling for the first time as he slid his hand up and down her back, not to arouse her, but to simply touch her. "You've asked me a million questions and I've answered them. Now ask me why things ended with her after only six weeks."

"Why did it end?" Somehow, she felt this was the question she should have asked from the very beginning, as soon as they had left the bakery.

"It's embarrassing," he whispered in her ear as he leaned in closer.

"You told me to ask." She turned so she could murmur her response teasingly into his ear.

He whispered even more quietly, "I called out your name...in the throes."

She giggled and pressed against him, once again hooking her leg over his hip as she had a thousand times before. But then she her face fell. "That's a little sad," she said somberly.

"She told me it wasn't the first time I'd done it, though it was the first time I realized I'd done it. She said it would be the last because, if we were using one another to forget the people we really wanted to be with, it wasn't working. It was pointless to continue."

Mary rolled on top of him, her legs on either side of his hips, and lay flat against him, her chin on his chest. She grabbed his hands and leaned over him, holding his wrists against the bed over their heads. "You called her _Mary_? More than once? And you never kissed her like this?" She devoured his mouth. There was simply no way to describe the battle of tongues and lips and nips of teeth, the ache, the pleasure of it all. He moaned and she swallowed the sound with her mouth. He traced her lips with his tongue then bit them lightly, holding her mouth captive for a moment, his eyes so very blue in the dark.

"I did call her Mary." He could barely speak. "And I never kissed her like that because I've only ever loved you. And maybe after kissing Drew and thinking of me and hating me for it, you can understand why I hated you a little too, at Lavinia's funeral. Because even as they were lowering her into the ground, _I just wanted to make love with you._ And I felt like a horrible person so I said something stupid and cruel, calling us cursed, because I didn't know how to say what I really wanted to say."

"I do that sometimes too." She sat straight up, still on top of him, his hands caressing her legs and up her thighs. "I say something stupid and cruel because I don't know how to say what I really want to say. Was that what the other night was–for you–when you said those things about–"

"Yes, God, Mary–yes. And when you said..."

"Yes, completely," she admitted freely. And maybe it was odd, but their talk about past lovers had made them want one another more than ever. Matthew reared up to meet her, cupping the back of her neck with his hand, where he hesitated for only a moment, his mouth a breath away from hers. So it was she who leaned forward, dragging her fingers in and through his wonderfully thick hair and they kissed in that aching way, when everything slowed down for a moment, where everything went from _want, want, want _to _need, need, need. _

Then she was divesting him of his pajamas top, button by button, running her hands all over the skin of his chest and back–anywhere she could reach. Then she had to use her lips because he was trying to remove his own pajama pants from her body without moving her off of him and his shoulders, his wonderfully perfect shoulders were right there for her to taste.

He continued to combat his own pants on his wife's body. They both groaned when it became obvious that they must be parted, just for a moment, just for a moment, and then she shifted up and off of him and he yanked at the pants and she pulled his down past his knees and they were center to center, skin to skin, and they moaned again at the renewed contact.

He worshipped her throat. It seemed the right thing to do since upon the pleasure of feeling him against her core again, she'd leaned her head back and he was at such a perfect angle to pay homage to it as she slowly rocked her hips against his. And wasn't it crazy, wasn't it insane that this could all happen while he was unbuttoning her pajamas? He whispered against her skin, "I love that the last button doesn't fit over Baby," and in that moment, while his hand paused where their child lay sleeping, growing, living, between them, she loved it too.

He carefully slid his hands to her sides, between her too-tender breasts and her hips and lifted her off of him, holding her in the air (he was ever so strong) and she moaned at little at the loss of contact at their centers, but now her breasts were perfectly aligned with his mouth. He held her there, halfway in the air as he carefully licked and suckled, while her head fell back and she moaned some more, before he lowered her slowly, inch by inch, so slowly it was almost torture, onto him. The pleasure was so intense they could not even moan or groan, only gasp into one another's mouths as she encased him completely, sitting astride him.

Then she began to move. He helped her, cupping her bottom in his hands. "I love you," he gasped into her mouth. She tried to kiss him but her lips felt numb and every sensation was focused on him inside of her, more deeply, it seemed, than ever before, and her sliding and stroking along him. "I love you too," she gasped back into his mouth, their noses brushing, her breasts against his chest. But she kept moving and he kept helping, faster then slow again, in an ever-evolving pace. She tightened around him and he closed his eyes. "Mary," he warned. "Not yet," she pleaded because it was just _so good and so perfect _but her pleading was in vain because now she was clenching around him, and then starting to pulse, and then she was a vise around him, as tight as tight could be, while she pulsed, pulsed, pulsed, as everything shattered around both of them. He let out a yell that she wasn't sure she was successful in swallowing completely.

They were sweaty as she fell against him and he, in turn, fell against the pillows at his back. She lay panting against him, her hair covering his face so he could barely breathe. When he could finally think, he realized he could feel the tiny swell of her belly between him and it made him grin. She lifted her head. "What is it?" she asked.

"I'm just happy," he answered simply. "Do you think it's wrong to be happy when Edith–"

She pressed her fingers to his mouth. "Right now, with our little girl safely sleeping down the hall and our other baby between us, I think it would be wrong _not_ to be." She trailed kisses up his neck. "_My_ question is, do you think it's wrong to stay like this, with you inside me, waiting until you're ready to make love with me again?"

He rolled them over twice, so she remained on top, without any weight on her. "You're very bold today," he smiled.

"It's your child," she claimed. "It's the hormones." She ran one of her fingers gently around his nipple, barely brushing the skin. He shivered.

"And after the baby is born? On what will you blame your insatiable desire for your husband then?"

Her stomach rumbled. "On second thought, Baby and I really must eat."

"What would you like? I'll run down and get you something," he offered, stroking her back.

She laughed and pressed a kiss to his chest. "Darling, you don't understand. I need to really _eat. _All those things I told you about getting fat? That starts tonight."

He did some math in his head and under his breath, without realizing she could clearly hear him, he muttered, "Well you are thirteen weeks and the book did say your appetite would increase. That you may even have odd cravings..."

She pinched his side, even as she rose from him, comfortably naked in the dark, to look for a robe. "What book?"

"Dr. George is writing it. I called him for recommendations, and I'm reading one of his drafts." He got up as well and found his dressing gown. She was tying the white silk robe when he came to her to place his hands on her hips. "You know what that robe does to me."

"Sorry, darling." She danced away from him, pressing her finger to his lips as she opened the door and whispered, "but you aren't having me again until I've eaten." She started down the hall, then turned to look back at him. "And don't even _think_ about the kitchen counter."

Once in the kitchen, she asked him to find a tray, which had him questioning exactly how much food they would be bringing up into their bed. Mary simply raised an eyebrow and whispered into his ear, very sarcastically, "Why don't you consult your book?" while that damned robe slid against him. He bet she was doing it on purpose.

Mrs. Byrd had prepared sandwiches for them for whenever they awoke. Mary placed that plate on the tray, as well as a pitcher of lemonade (which had Matthew searching for glasses), extra mustard, and an apple torte that clearly was for tomorrow's dinner. "Mary," he admonished. "What will Mrs. Byrd think when she wakes up tomorrow and half of her cake is gone?"

"Half of it?" She wrapped her arms around his middle, her breasts sliding against his back. Now he _knew_ she was doing this on purpose. "I'm going to eat the whole thing." She bit his ear. "And I imagine she will think that Lady Mary is pregnant since my belly has begun to pudge out anyway."

He turned in her arms. "I love your belly," he whispered and had her robe halfway untied so he could caress it and consider the kitchen counter, after all, before she slapped his hands away.

"I told you," she hissed. "Not until we," and she motioned to her own belly, "have eaten." She paused, "Then..." and raised an eyebrow.

She devoured two thirds of the sandwiches (she left the rest out of of love for him)–dipping them in extra mustard (lots of extra mustard), and two thirds of the torte. He finished off the rest. When she had finally had enough, she drank the lemonade and let out a very feminine burp. He gaped at her, but she only smiled demurely. "What, darling?" she asked in an overly sweet tone. "Don't you remember whispering into my ear _d'you think we've made a baby yet? _Did you not understand what that would mean? Am I no longer attractive to you, now that you have seen me eat like a grown man?"

"Of course not," he replied, "You're still wearing that robe, aren't you?" She laughed and when she kissed him she tasted of lemonade.

"What about a massage?" he asked against her lips. "Your muscles seemed very...tight earlier."

She raised an eyebrow. "Did they? All right, that sounds wonderful."

"Though I think it would be best if you sat in front of me..."

"I know," she said mournfully. "Soon I won't be able to sleep on my stomach at all."

"Take that robe off, dear," he whispered into her ear. "I want to get down _into_ the muscles."

She smiled. "Then you'll have to turn off the lights because there is no way I will be naked in front of you with so much light in this room and this growing belly."

He did as he asked, figuring he had months left to convince her to make love during the day while she was pregnant. He got rid of his own robe when he went for the switch.

"Why do you have to be naked to give me a massage?" she asked suspiciously.

He didn't have a good answer to her question, and they both sputtered laughter. Then he turned serious, crawled onto the foot of the bed towards her, and kissed her gently. "I've missed you. Just talking. Just laughing. Just being with you."

"So have I," she agreed, touching her forehead to his.

"Whatever did we do before this?" he asked, thinking of the years before they'd met again in New York.

"I don't know. I really don't." She was untying her robe, shrugging out of it, then she wound her arms around his neck and pulled him to her.

"What about your massage?" he asked against her lips. It was a testament to his love for her that he even remembered his offer with his wife's naked body under his.

"After," she replied.

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><p><em>AN: Would love to know what you thought of the completion of their "make up." I always respond to reviews. Promise. xx_


	35. Chapter 35

_A/N: Oh my gosh, you guysss! I really want to be the person who gives you your birthday present weeks before your birthday and tell you about the chapter I am working on now but I can't! I'm literally biting my tongue to keep from typing it all out (which may seem odd, however...). As always, must thank **Faeyero,** __for all her hard work amongst a demanding life. Grazie Mille, la mia amica! Thank you to everyone who comments. Honestly, they make this so much fun. Even when you're questioning me and my choices. For real. I love to hear from newbies and oldies and will answer everyone! xx_

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><p>Chapter Thirty Five<p>

In the early morning, one little girl woke, rubbed at her eyes with tiny knuckles, and began to pile loads of stuffed animals into a ramp of sorts in the corner of her crib (her indulgent but ignorant grandmothers had included the stuffed animals when they put her to bed the night before, not knowing what a creative escape artist this little girl could be; though they had both raised children they had never known a child like Gracie). The little pile, her sheer determination, and the growing strength in her arms and legs, enabled her to monkey to the top of the crib and slide down the other side. She was no novice when it came to this maneuver and accomplished it with such ease that it was a toss-up if her parents, had they seen it, would have been relieved or horrified.

She clapped and cheered at her own feat, "Yay!" and then pressed her lips together as a reminder to herself. "Shh!"

The door to her nursery was ajar, so she easily opened it the rest of the way. Then, sliding backwards down the stairs, as Papa had taught her to do when he found her, trying to sneak _out_ of the nursery and down the stairs (Papa was so good not to tell her _no_ but instead insisted that she slide down on her belly), she found her way to Baby's box.

She remembered the story Mama had read to her of the beautiful lady who could be awakened with a kiss, but, before the little girl could test this fairy tale theory on her canine, the puppy awoke and jumped to kiss her instead. Standing on her hind legs, Baby was nearly as tall as the little girl, but skinny enough still that Grace, with enough determination could lift/drag the puppy if necessary (or if she felt moved to do so, which was quite often). The little girl wanted to laugh at the feel of her dog's tongue on her cheeks but she remembered they had to be very, very quiet. She set Baby on the stairs and both dog and little girl began to climb. "Shhh!" she told her friend as the dog's excitement over going up the forbidden stairs got the better of her and she let out a little yip.

At the top of the stairs, Baby waited as her little mistress reached up onto her tip-toes and opened the door to Mama and Papa's room. "Shh!" she told the puppy again.

She knew better than to go to her mother's side of the bed, so instead she went to her father's.

"Papa," Gracie whispered, poking him. His eyes opened immediately, as they always did. Unlike Mama, Papa could be prevailed upon to wake very quickly. She didn't have the words for it yet but she knew when he looked at her, that he loved her completely. Of course, the same was true of her mama but Gracie knew that Papa loved to snuggle in the mornings in the Big Bed. Some mornings they snuggled while Mama slept beside them, just Gracie and Papa.

He smiled, his voice hoarse. "Good morning, darling," he murmured.

The little girl leaned down to pick up the dog. "Baby," she stated, trying to lift her onto the bed. Although the man who was known as "Grandpapa" had not been very nice upon their first meeting he had given her the most wonderful present. It was as if Baby was a stuffed animal come to life!

While his daughter was distracted by her attempt to boost the wriggling Baby onto the bed, Matthew found his pajamas pants with his toes and was putting them on beneath the covers so his daughter would not climb into bed with him naked. Mary, thankfully, was wrapped back in her robe, burrowed as usual. "Gracie," he whispered. "We can't put Baby in the bed. She sleeps downstairs in her box. Remember?"

Gracie frowned, her lower lip trembling. Matthew sighed. She _did _know her papa well. Baby also seemed to be giving him a rather pathetic look, her eyes blinking up at him. So, resigned, he lifted girl and puppy to the center of the bed, preparing himself for Mary's displeasure when she eventually awoke. He knew she would chide him for being a soft touch, but he couldn't help grinning anyway, after the night they had had...and now this morning the most important people (and one canine) in their lives were in their bed. "All right, now let's go to sleep," he whispered to his daughter, including the puppy, trying to look a bit stern (for form's sake at least).

Gracie nodded, as if she was aware her unspoken request had come at a price. She cuddled against her father's chest and immediately went back to sleep. Baby sniffed the covers and turned in a few circles before plopping down and closing her eyes, her nose tucked up underneath the pillow, near Mary's. Matthew stifled a laugh before lightly dozing, aware that they he might need to wake to save the puppy from Mary's wrath (which he believed to be a complete act).

Mary woke to someone rubbing her belly. As she surfaced from sleep, she heard Grace's voice singing, "Baby, Baby, Baby," so close to her stomach she could feel the vibrations of the song. Mary smiled but did not open her eyes. Then, suddenly, her face was being licked by a tiny, raw, incessant tongue. She opened her eyes to find Baby's black face and wet nose _very _close to her face. Mary let out a tiny squeak. The odor of Baby's kisses had Mary holding her breath, before Baby moved away from Mary's face, plopping over near Grace, by Mary's stomach. "_Babies_," Gracie cried happily, using the plural for the first time. Papa clapped but Mama was not fully awake yet, although the shock of meeting Baby face to face had brought her farther along in the process much more quickly than usual.

Mary turned to look at Matthew, who shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her a bit guiltily.

"Is there a _dog_ in our bed?" Mary asked him. "Was a _dog_ just licking my face? Or am I dreaming?"

"No, dear, it was not a dream," he said seriously. "The tongue belonged to me, however," he concluded with a smirk.

He leaned over and kissed her, lingering as much as he could with a bed full of dog and toddler. "She came to me in the morning, with her little lip pushed out. What was I supposed to do?" He blinked his own sad blue eyes at her.

Gracie and the puppy continued their ministrations to her belly (which did feel quite nice) so Mary went on kissing her husband, before biting his lip rather hard, so that he winced. "Did you ever notice," Mary said against his lips, "that she doesn't ever come to my side of the bed? It's because she knows that I will say a very easy word–one of the first she learned, in fact: _no_."

"But it's harmless really," he insisted, leaning back against the pillows. Mary raised an eyebrow. He knew better than to push his luck.

"Is it really, Matthew?" Her voice was grumpy but he knew her well enough to know that she wasn't truly angry. "What about a year from now, when we have two children in bed with us? And you've seen Isis. Look at Baby's paws, darling–she's not going to be a petite thing when full grown. How will all of that fit in this bed?"

He whispered into her ear. "We'll buy a _bigger_ one."

She snorted.

He changed the topic. He had to. He was obviously losing this _argument._ "I was thinking that today we should take Gracie and go see Bates and Anna...or Mr. Bates and Mrs. Bates, I suppose. I was going to ask and see if the Bransons would like to join us."

She rubbed her palm against his morning beard. "That's a lovely idea. But I don't know if Sybil will want to leave Edith." Her eyes were sad and oddly reminded him of Baby's (though he would never admit to such a thing). He wondered which experience made her saddest–Edith's horrible situation, Edith's treatment of her, Edith's preference of Sybil–but knew better than to ask.

"Well, we'll ask," Matthew replied, pushing her hair back from her face. He knew it was an impossible wish, but he did not want her to be sad today. "And we'll see."

Mary nodded, then looked quickly over at the puppy, who was circling in the middle of the blanket. "If that dog pees on our bed, Matthew..."

Baby proved to be the perfect distraction from Mary's Edith-centered woes.

Gracie giggled, holding her hands over her mouth as if she knew exactly what they were talking about. She was perfectly joyful; everyone she loved was in the big bed, smiling and happy. In her world, she could not imagine a better moment than this. She clapped her hands as Baby lapped once more at Mary's face.

"Look, Gracie," Papa said with glee. "Baby loves Mama."

Grace nodded knowingly at him. "Lalou, Mama!"

"This," Mary stated, "will never happen again."

Matthew refused to meet her eyes.

* * *

><p>"I don't understand why we couldn't just walk. It's not that far," Sybil complained from the front seat. She sat beside Tom in the car while Robbie sat in Matthew's lap and Gracie in Mary's in the backseat. Due to Sybil's mild temper tantrum, they were still idling in front of Crawley House.<p>

Edith had not wanted to see Sibyl today–though she had been much kinder to her younger sister than to Mary–and, though Sybil understood, it made her unbearably sad and sorry and, worst of all, left her feeling helpless.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Tom replied in as cheerful tone as he could manage when he could see the weight of her Sybil's stress quite literally wilting her shoulders and digging bruises beneath her eyes, "but you're nearly seven months pregnant."

"So?" Sybil retorted, folding her arms over her breasts. She was tired and cranky and so very uncomfortable. And Edith, poor Edith...

"So..." Tom tucked his tongue into his cheek. What he really wanted to do was slam his fist into the steering wheel and demand that his wife lie down with her feet up but he knew her better than to admit that. "I know it's been a long time since _you've_ been able to see your own feet, but _I_ see them and they are swollen–and they needn't be made more swollen by an unnecessary walk when we have a car at our disposal, as well as two toddlers in tow."

Mary squeezed her sister's shoulder. "Tom's right, Sybil. And even if you're up for a walk, _I'm_ not," she admitted both for her own benefit and for Sybil's.

"I should be with Edith anyway," Sybil said quietly. "_Not that she wants me there._"

"Well at least she didn't demand you leave or accuse you of having _a perfect life_," Mary muttered. "She just very nicely asked if only Mama would come today."

"You both need a day away from there anyway," Tom said gently, laying one of his hands on Sybil's knee.

Sybil turned on him, not as quickly as she would have liked, because her body _was_ rather large–but her tone was that of Nurse Branson and a very angry Sybil mixed together. "And why is that, Tom? What, do you think babies dying in the womb is a disease that you can catch and pass on to others?" It was a rather dramatic statement, but she _felt_ dramatic. She was worried about Edith. She was worried about Mary. She was worried about the babies they both carried.

Tom patted her shoulder, which was nearly vibrating with the intensity of her outburst. "No, and you didn't let me finish," he said calmly, obviously unafraid of her anger. "The tension, the stress. You need a break. You need to see Robbie. You need to _smile_ a bit," he added, one finger tracing her cheek. "If not for you, then for the babe."

She hated when he was right so she gave a brief nod and the entire car seemed to let out a collective sigh of relief, while the two toddlers babbled back and forth in their own language.

* * *

><p>Mary was surprised that tears came to her eyes at the sight of Anna, dear, dear Anna, but she swallowed them. Anna was as pregnant as Sybil but her face and smile were the same as always. "You've just missed John. He's picking up new curtains for one of the rooms. There is a widow in Ripon who makes the loveliest things."<p>

"Why, Mrs. Bates, you're glowing," Mary announced, pulling a surprised Anna into a hug. Despite all the time they'd spent together, the confidences they'd shared (including carrying a dead man back to his room), they had never embraced before; there had always been the divide of Lady and Servant. And it felt so stupid to Mary now, looking back, because she knew she never would have survived, and of it, if not for Anna.

"It's just Anna, Lady Mary," she chided, hugging Mary back just as tightly. Anna had done her hair, laced her corset, buckled her shoes, but she'd never even considered embracing Lady Mary. Not even when she'd been called down to the small library to find her mistress still on the floor in her ruined corset, and had been given orders by the Dowager Countess.

And though Anna had many memories of Lady Mary, it was that one which had lingered and bothered Anna for years. She'd never even told John, how they had managed, somehow, to get Lady Mary to her feet, the Dowager Countess ushering Matthew to the door before closing and locking it behind him. "If you need my help..." the Dowager Countess had offered Anna, which should have been the strangest part of the night, but unfortunately had not been.

Once Lady Mary was dressed appropriately they discovered she could barely make it up the stairs. Anna would not have dared ask what had happened, even had it not been obvious. So she simply helped Mary back out of the dress and into her nightgown without a word once they were back in her room. She saw the bruises, the scratches, the blood on her mistress's legs and her thighs. _How about a bath, milady? _she'd asked, and Mary had agreed with relief, insisting that the water must be very, very hot, the very hottest Anna could get it. Anna did not feel right leaving her alone so while Lady Mary bathed, Anna found the ruined corset, ruined dress, ruined stockings and gathered them up, hiding them in an urn. She would later burn them. When she went back to Lady Mary, she found that her charge had scrubbed herself raw. It wasn't until Anna half lifted her out of the water herself that Mary consented to put on her nightgown. As Anna helped her into bed, Mary had only whispered: _Now you have another secret to keep for me. I am so sorry, Anna._ Anna had shaken her head. She wanted to cry, but knew that would not help. _Don't be sorry, milady,_ she had said at last.

Anna had poured her into bed that night, as if she had no bones at all. _Would you like me to stay for a little while, milady, until you fall asleep? _she had asked. Mary's reply, muffled by the pillow, had broken Anna's heart: _I don't think I'll ever sleep again. _

Anna was brought back to the present by two jabbering toddlers and Lady Mary's voice.

"Well then you must call me Mary then, and my husband Matthew, and my daughter Grace," Mary insisted, pulling back to smile at Anna, whose hands she was still holding. "We _insist._"

Shyly, Anna replied, "You look happy, mil..._Mary_. I always wanted to see you happy."

Mary leaned forward, squeezing Anna's hands. "I am," she whispered. "Life is not perfect, of course, but I am ever so happy."

Anna turned to greet Mary's daughter. "Hello there, Grace."

"Hullo!" Grace announced, waving quite theatrically.

"She's your spitting image," Anna told Mary.

"Well, she's much friendlier than I ever was," Mary said drolly. She linked her arm through Anna's. "God decided not to pay me back for all the havoc I wrought in my youth."

"She's still young yet," Tom added, and the whole party laughed. He jiggled his son. "Right, Robbie? You'll teach your young cousin all your tricks, won't you?"

"Let me show you all what we've done with the place," Anna offered. "It's changed quite a bit." What had been a dark small town hotel had been turned into an airy space, full of light. "Do you think you and Sybil can make it up the stairs? There is one room in particular I'd love to show you."

"So you noticed," Mary complained, patting her belly.

"Oh, don't complain," Anna laughed. "Look at Sybil and I."

"The menfolk will stay down over here on this bench with the children, lest you have any breakables about," Tom offered and Matthew agreed. "If we're not here when you're back, we've taken the rascals outside to walk a bit."

Anna led the two women to a room, a few flights up, with a fireplace overlaid in a creamy stone. The walls were a mossy green, the coverlet lace. There were fresh flowers, a bowl full of flat white stones, and a beautiful rug soft enough to nap on near the fireplace. "We call this the honeymoon suite," Anna told them. "We're trying to change the reputation of the place."

"Tom and I never had a honeymoon," Sybil murmured wistfully, her fingers barely touching the fine lace.

"Neither did Matthew and I," Mary murmured, picking up one of the stones, which was cool to the touch.

"Why don't you have one now?" Anna asked. "Oh, please do–it would be a treat from John and me."

"We couldn't," Sybil shook her head. "Robbie would destroy this room in two shakes."

"We could watch Robbie for you," Mary offered.

Sybil smiled her thanks. "But what about this?" she asked wryly, putting her hands over her belly.

"I'm sure you and Tom could find plenty to do in this room, even with _that,_" Mary replied knowingly. "Besides, I have a present for you back home and it would be perfect for a honeymoon, even one that's only a night."

"You should have one, too, Mary–even if only for a night," Anna insisted.

"Yes, we'll watch Gracie. She's a great deal easier than Robbie," Sybil acknowledged, rolling her eyes.

"Well this room is open tonight," Anna said. "And we'd love to have the Bransons. Then maybe in a few weeks, the Crawleys."

* * *

><p>There was a huge crate waiting for them when they returned to Crawley House. "Oh, look," Mary said dryly, "Papa has bought Gracie a pony for us to take care of. Perhaps tomorrow I will wake up with a horse in my bed." Mary took Grace and motioned for Sybil to follow. "We'll let you boys handle that," she added.<p>

"What's this about a horse in her bed?" Tom asked when they were alone.

"Oh, I let Gracie bring the puppy into bed with us this morning. Mary wasn't very happy with me," Matthew grinned. He called for Molesley to bring some tools so he and Tom could open the crate. "Mary is still upset that her father gave a twenty month old a puppy...I'd watch out if I were you. Robbie's birthday is coming in and Robert might give him a talking parrot."

"Stay on the porch, Robbie," Tom told his son. "Well, whatever he does give him," he grimaced as he and Matthew went to work on the crate, "I know he'll want to show Sybil and me up when it comes to what we can afford. It's become a little tradition of his."

Mary led Sybil upstairs, stopping in the nursery to grab one of Gracie's favorite books. Then they went to the master bedroom where Mary settled Gracie in the middle of the bed with the book of fairy tales. "Will you read to Mama, darling?" she asked, smoothing her daughter's hair. Grace began to turn the pages, talking nonsense with a few real words thrown in.

Mary brought Sybil to her wardrobe where she pulled out a drawer that was filled with an array of silk, sheer, and lace obviously meant to entice Matthew. "Jaysus," Sybil in a fair imitation of an Irish accent, unsure of what her expected reaction should be.

Mary laughed. "I have to explain. These were all purchased by a woman who used to work for me in New York. She got a great deal of pleasure out of embarrassing _Lady _Mary and the future Earl of Grantham with naughty nightgowns, some more provocative than others. These aren't even the worst. But the thing is, Sybil," Mary glanced over at Gracie and lowered her voice, "some of them really are lovely and make me feel..."she trailed off. "Even pregnant. And don't repeat this, but Matthew loves them." They both giggled. "I wanted to get you a present, something no one else would ever get you, something that would make you feel lovely even at seven months pregnant," Mary explained, and handed a box to Sybil. "I told Mrs. Larsen exactly what I wanted and sent her the money."

Sybil opened the box to find the most beautiful nightgown she had ever seen. It was a deep indigo, floor-length but with a slit up the side. "But I'm pregnant," Sybil whispered. "I could never wear _this_."

"It will fit right over your belly," Mary promised. "I made sure. And please," Mary rolled her eyes, "do not even try to lie to me and tell me that you and Tom kept your hands off of each other when you were this far along with Robbie."

"Well, of course not," Sybil whispered. "You know how it is. All those crazy hormones...One minute I feel like I'll die if I don't have him; the next minute the thought of him touching me is repulsive. And meanwhile, Tom..." Now it was her turn to trail off and glance at Gracie, who was still occupied with her book

"What?" Mary laughed behind her hand. "You _have_ to tell me now."

"Tom...he likes that I'm pregnant. It's not revolting to him, as I thought it would be, but...quite the opposite!"

"Matthew too!" Mary admitted. "It's so strange to me that he could find me so attractive when I feel at my very worst."

Sybil bit her lip and looked up at her big sister. "Did you mean it when you offered to take Robbie tonight?" Mary nodded, and Sybil squealed, "Oh, I can't wait. He'll be so surprised his eyes will pop out of his head!"

When they finally walked downstairs and out the door (after Mary and Sybil had giggled over some of Mrs. Larsen's more ridiculous choices), Mary carrying Grace, they found that the crate had been opened and was empty. Just beside it sat the rocking chair from New York. It was not as new as the one currently in Grace's nursery; the arms were a bit worn from Mary's, and then Matthew's, elbows as they cradled and fed the baby. The bottom of the chair also showed some wear from–how many minutes, hours, days had they rocked in that chair? They had traveled miles in it.

Mary eyes immediately filled as they met Matthew's. She remembered walking into his arms and explaining what the chair meant to her–and he had remembered, too. He had listened and he had remembered.

"I wrote to her and had her send it," he admitted a bit shyly. He couldn't find it within himself to be _proud _of his gift, especially in light of how many mistakes he'd made of late, but he was just so pleased to see her happy, after the week she had experienced, to see her eyes warm and her posture soften.

"Look, Gracie," Mary murmured as tears streamed down her face. "It's our chair from New York." Grace peered at her mother, confused. Her voice sounded very happy, but she was crying. Sometimes Mama was very confusing, especially since all this Baby business. "It's the only chair I've ever rocked her in," Mary explained to Sybil. "Until we came here. Every night, before every nap."

Sybil began to tear up, as well. "Oh, Mary. Did I tell you? Just before we came over for summer, Robbie stopped wanting to be rocked. He insisted on just being put right in his crib and falling asleep on his own. It broke my heart."

Mary reached out a hand and linked pinkies with her sister.

Tom looked up at the sky, as if he were calling on Jesus himself for patience. It wasn't the crying that bothered him; it was the helplessness it left in his belly, the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to _fix _whatever Sibyl–and now her sister–was crying over.

"Pipe down, you!" Sybil told him, though he hadn't said a word. "It's your baby that is making me cry. And," she said, sniffling as she turned to him, "because of Anna and John's hospitality, you and I will be enjoying a honeymoon tonight. And because of my sister's kindness, Robbie will be staying here with them."

Matthew looked at Mary, wordless. She knew exactly what he was thinking. It was hard enough to find time to _be together _with one toddler in tow, let alone two, and they'd been _apart _for so long...

_Too bad_, she thought, as he gave her a look that surely must have mimicked the expression on Gracie's face that brought a dog into their bed. _I am not a soft touch. _She shook her head at him, grinning.

"Oh, it's _my_ baby now, is it?" Tom asked, rocking on his heels, hands in his pockets, grinning at his wife. "_Oh Tom_," he began in a falsetto, "_don't you think Robbie should have a playmate?_"

She pinched him, then leaned up into his ear so no one else could hear, especially since Mary seemed to be having her own silent conversation with Matthew."You seemed awfully adverse to the idea, making love with me day and night."

He winked at her then picked her up by the elbows–quite a feat at this stage–to press a quick kiss to her mouth. "And I won't be adverse to the idea of making love with you tonight either. Several times in fact," he whispered back. "Well, we'll be off," he said a bit of hurry in his tone, "and then we'll bring Robbie back with his things, as soon as possible. Thank you," he said seriously. "I don't know when we'll have another chance to be alone together once this second baby comes." They drove off with promises to return in an hour or so or as Tom kept repeating _as soon as possible._

"Where is Robbie going to sleep?" Matthew asked as Mary sat in the rocking chair, out in front of the house, with Grace cuddled in her arms.

"In Gracie's crib," Mary stated as if it were obvious. Her eyes were on Gracie, a thousand memories passing before her. She promised herself she would not weep over the fact that her little girl, that their little girl, was healthy and happy and growing up, that she was not simply a baby any longer.

Matthew looked heavenward as Tom had done earlier. "And where is our daughter going to sleep?"

"Why, darling," Mary said, smiling wickedly, "I know how you love to have her sleep between us. I didn't think you'd mind. Why not invite Baby, too? We can make a party of it."

Gracie was beginning to fall asleep, rocking outside, the sun warm on her face. It was definitely nap time.

"We still have things to talk about, you and I," he said, following her into the house and up the stairs. She knew he was right, just as she knew both of them were glad they had had the night before and the day away from even the thought of _that man_.

"I'm not trying to avoid it," she murmured, laying the baby down. "Once she's asleep tonight, you and I can talk in the bathroom."

"Why not now?" he asked.

"Because there isn't enough time...Sybil and Tom will be back soon." They exited the nursery, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. "Thank you. For the rocking chair. For knowing me. And for knowing what it meant to me." She leaned forward to kiss him, just a simple press of lips–but was it ever simple between them? Had it ever once been simple?

He backed her into the wall so that every part of her was pressed against every part of him, running his hands from her hips up her sides so they barely touched her breasts. "Are you mad?" she whispered into his mouth. "Anyone could see." So he began to walk her backwards, her hands clinging to his shoulders, her mouth on fire against his, trusting him to lead her to their room. When her back hit the door, she boosted herself up, wrapping her legs around his waist. "That wasn't as easy as it used to be," she admitted in a hushed whisper, tilting her head back so he could suck on her throat. He opened the door and guided her through, mostly blindly, closed it behind them, and took her to bed.

"Is there time?" she asked, even as she helped him to get rid of his clothes.

He grinned, his face between her breasts. "There's always time for _this._"

* * *

><p>Though the backyard of Crawley House wasn't overly large, there was plenty of grass for Robbie, Gracie, and Baby to play in as Mary and Matthew sat in two chairs drinking lemonade (Mrs. Byrd had been forced to make more that morning when she found the empty pitcher).<p>

Mary laughed when Gracie tried to jump onto Robbie's back, crying, "Up!" and he wrestled her to the ground in a gentle sort of way. She'd seen the way he wrestled with Tom but he seemed to know instinctually that his cousin was younger and more delicate, and that he should be careful. Gracie only laughed as he tickled her sides.

"We could talk about it now," Mary offered without taking her eyes off the children.

"No," Matthew replied, reaching his hand out for his wife's. "Not now. Come here." She laughed as he pulled her up and out of her own chair and into his lap.

"This is very improper, Mr. Crawley," she murmured, though she had no intention of moving. "The staff will talk, you know."

He ignored her. "Just think, Mary: in a few years, Gracie will be playing like that with her new brother or sister." He tried to keep his voice free from sentimentality, but he failed. "And..."

"And what?" she asked him, happy the sun was shining, happy she could run her hands through her husband's hair, happy her daughter was happy, happy that two cousins born on different continents were laughing together. _Happy. _

"And maybe another on the way," he added hopefully. He tried to smile cheekily but she knew him well enough to know that he wasn't joking. Not one bit.

"I'm not even four months along with this one yet," she smiled into his hair. "Let's take the babies one at a time."

"But you're not against it?" he asked, stroking her leg, looking up into her face.

She pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "I'm not against it, no. Of course not. But please," she added, "I really think we need to focus on _this _pregnancy and _this _baby."

He winked. "Oh, I'm focused," he grinned, rubbing her growing belly in the way his daughter had taught him.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, Gracie wasn't the only one who liked to run around in just a nappy, hollering and screaming. And after their great day of bonding, Robbie and Grace seemed perfectly happy to do it together in Gracie's room, only running into one another a few times. Matthew laughed at them, but Mary only smiled. She knew he thought it was hilarious to have two of them for <em>one night <em>but she wondered how he would do when there was two of them _all of the time. _

Just as Sybil had promised, Robbie went right into Gracie's crib after Mary wrestled him into his pajamas, talking to himself and playing with his bear. _Just like his father, _Sybil had rolled her eyes when dropping everything off, _he'll be asleep in five minutes flat. The boy can sleep anywhere._

Of course, Sybil was perfectly correct. It made Mary inordinately proud of her younger sister, and maybe of herself as well, that both she and Sybil were the types of mothers who _knew _their children, what they liked, how they slept, how to soothe them. She wondered how it was possible that she and Sybil, so very different in some ways, had both married for love and both mothered in a very involved way. What did that say about them? Especially when compared to the way they had been raised? Their mother had loved them and snuggled them but in Mary's memory there were always nannies, then later governesses reporting to Cora. _Oh, Sybil didn't nap as well as she usually does, _one might have said. And Cora would nod as if she knew the way Sybil normally napped.

Gracie was ever so excited to sleep in bed with Mama and Papa. Mama read her a story about a very pretty lady with the longest hair Gracie had ever seen who was stuck in a tower, but she fell asleep before she discovered how the story ended. Mary placed pillows all around her and then went to the bathroom, to her husband.

"What have you done?" she whispered. The bath was filled with frothy bubbles and lit with candles, and he was just shutting off the lights. "It smells like lavender. I love lavender. I've always loved it."

"I know," Matthew murmured somewhere near her ear. "Which is strange because when I bought the salts, the woman said lavender is very nice for relaxation and Mary," she felt the laugh rumble in his chest, "when I met you, you were not very relaxed."

"Would you be very relaxed around a sea monster?" she retorted, giggling quietly. They hadn't closed the door all the way in case Gracie woke up, which seemed unlikely considering the day she had. "I thought we were going to talk about Richard," she said more seriously.

"We are," he said as he began to undo her clothing. "But I'm taking your granny's advice and we're going to do it while holding onto one another. And since you're so adverse to me seeing you naked in the light," he kissed her collarbone, "which I really must insist you get over by the way, I took a page out of Mrs. Larsen's book and added the candles."

"It seems so...romantic though," she whispered. "when the subject is so awful."

"All the more reason," Matthew insisted. "One caveat, though: this does _not _count as my bathtub fantasy."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Do you hate me for cutting the chapter there? I hate me. But I had to. You'll see why. And I hope that Kavan is happy that Baby was all over this chapter. And I hope you believe me that when I tell you that this is not a filler chapter. In fact, if I wanted to sound mysterious I could, in fact, say: some keys to the future lie hidden with in this chapter. Oh my gosh. I need sleep. But seriously, what did you think? How **is **this talk about Richard going to go? I know how URMYSTICK hopes it goes in that bathtub ;) xxoo_


	36. Chapter 36

_A/N: Why, hello! Thank you to **Faeyero, **for her diligent work in beta-ing. She puts up with a lot from me, guys. Also, I would like to thank google docs for trying to ghost write my story, wanting to change words like insistently to consistently which, does not make any sense, or waiting to waving. Why, google docs, why? Finally, I have to thank all of you for commenting. Honestly, this pace, and the length and the scope of this whole thing can be draining. But every time I read a comment, even if it questions me, it's like getting a writer's version of a B12 shot in my bum. Finally, it must be noted that upon reading the recent comments URMYSTICK has a fan club. _

* * *

><p>Chapter Thirty Six<p>

_"One caveat, though: this does not count as my bathtub fantasy."_ He was smirking at her, his arms crossed in front of him, as if this were a game. And if they were putting off the inevitable _nasty_ topic of Richard then she would play along, she decided, as the candles flickered and the bubbles frothed.

"All right," she agreed, crossing her own arms, prepared to bargain. "I'll get into the bath with you but you have to turn your back while I undress."

"Mary," he sighed, "the lights are _off_."

"But it's not dark _enough_," she insisted. "You have your caveat, I have mine. You may turn around once I am in the bath and under the bubbles."

He felt caught, since he had been aware that the room was not _dark enough _but had hoped that the candles would prove to be a kind of compromise against the day when she would just let him see her as she used to, in the full light of day. For now, though, he did as she asked, shuffling to show her his back. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of his wife's clothing dropping to the floor, and he had to remind himself that the purpose of this was to _finally _talk of Richard's visit, which they'd put off as long as they possibly could. Quite literally, actually.

He heard her slip one leg into the water, then the other, and sigh. And he realized that his plan of _talking _while naked and in the bath together was probably (definitely) not practical. He cleared his throat. "All clear?" he asked.

"All clear," she replied, and he turned. Her head was leaning against the edge of the tub; she'd tied her hair in a loose knot and her eyes were closed. The water wasn't hot (he had remembered what she'd said in New York about hot baths and pregnancies) but she seemed, completely relaxed by the bubbles and the lavender, and the water.

It wasn't only Mary who did not want to talk about Carlisle, he thought as he removed his own clothes. She seemed at peace for the first time in days, and he hated to ruin that, hated that Carlisle could ruin that. But they had put it off too long as it was. He slipped into the water across from her, his legs on one side, hers on the other. Her eyes opened to slits.

"Well," she murmured, touching his calf. "I suppose we should just get it over with."

He caressed her leg for no other reason but her own granny's advice that it was hard to fight when holding onto the person you loved. He was not angry at Mary, but he knew this topic was difficult for both of them, and he so desperately did not want to say the wrong thing. "I suppose we should," he added with the same lack of enthusiasm.

"The thing is," she sat up a bit and his hand slid to her ankle, "I think perhaps you might be upset with me–for letting him inside in the first place. I was just so surprised, you see. It's–hard for me to...think straight when it comes to him, particularly when I'm shocked by his presence with no time to think or plan. And I was tired and a bit out of sorts...if I could go back, I would never have opened the door," she finished quickly, her words running together.

Matthew sighed. "Mary, I'm not upset with _you_. I'm upset with _him. _You must know that. And I'm more than a little upset with myself because I'm part of the reason you were out of sorts," he replied earnestly, though she squeezed his ankle in reproach as if to say _that is over and done_. "But I need to know what happened so that I–so that _we_," he corrected, "can decide where to go from here, to be proactive in protecting our family."

She shifted awkwardly, tilting her head down, preferring to watch bubbles pop than to meet her husband's gaze. "You won't be happy," she whispered. "With any of it." But his hand continued to comfort her, his thumb rubbing the bone of her ankle, and so she continued. "At first, he was very...charming."

"Charming?" Matthew repeated, his hand stilling, his thumb pressed lightly where it had been circling. He didn't like the sound of this at all.

"He said he wanted peace and to explain his actions–I found out later he was talking about the necklace. But, Matthew–and I know this will make you angry, but–at first...he was...flirting with me." She said the last part very quietly, hunching her shoulders, as if she thought she were to blame, as if she had urged him on. "I know...because it was like we were back in time, when he was trying to convince me to marry him, before things became so horrible between us."

_Before everything I did made him angry._

_Before I ceased to care if I made him angry. _

_Before he raped me._

Matthew was quiet. He wished for a gun, a sword, any weapon to dispatch the man who, even without a continual physical presence, would continue to haunt his wife for the rest of her life. That Richard would be doubly cruel and inflict his presence upon her at every available opportunity made Matthew not just want to kill him but to do it slowly and as gruesomely as possible. Yet when he spoke to Mary, his voice was mild for her sake. "And then?"

She brought her hands out of the water to hold onto the edge of the tub. "I kept trying to steer him back to some semblance of propriety...his wife, his new life. But he kept talking about _us_–as if there were an _us. _About how he _loved me. _He talked about seeing you and me with Grace and it was as if he'd replaced your face with his own. I didn't want to make him angry. I kept _trying _not to make him angry."

"Of course you did. I understand," he soothed, caressing her leg, up her calf. "You were alone. God, Mary, I hate that you were alone with him."

She smiled faintly. "Well, I didn't like it much either, to be honest." Her hands went back into the water, one of them clinging to his ankle again, both of them anchoring the other. "I think he is more dangerous than we realize. He had a man keep tabs on me after...the small library. He thought I would come to him, in desperation because no one else would have me or..." she shuddered. "He even admitted that later it occurred to him that he might have gotten me pregnant." She squeezed her eyes shut. She did not want to cry. She did not want to waste any more tears on this man.

He clutched her leg. "But you didn't go to him."

"No," she whispered. "He knew that I went to New York and that I had a baby but he also knew that you and Mama went around the same time Grace was born. He assumed the child was yours. I let him assume it. I told him...that you and I had always been _together._"

"Good," Matthew encouraged. "I'm glad."

"He seemed to believe Grace was yours but he kept saying _what if, what if_..." she stopped. "I don't trust him. I don't know which lies were intentional and which he believed himself. It's all twisted in his mind. He said he only wanted to _love me_."

"Oh, Mary."

"I'm afraid I became terribly angry and used the word _rape_ several times. He didn't take kindly to that," she whispered." She tried to smile for a bit of comic relief but Matthew's icy eyes–filled with anguish for her–forced the smile from her face. "He threatened that if I told anyone that, or used _that word_, I would be sorry." Now she did begin to cry. "I didn't care anymore. He stood up and backed me up into the corner. He wasn't touching me but I was trapped and I didn't care anymore if I made him angry by telling the truth about the small library. I didn't care that the word _rape _upset him. I wanted to be unafraid, but of course, I was very afraid...I kept hearing my dress, the red silk from that night, rip in his hands. But I tried to brazen it out...I asked him what else could he possibly do to me that he hadn't already done. And Matthew..."

"What?" His imaginings were horrible. Had he touched her? Hurt her? "_What_, Mary?"

She shifted in the tub, moving awkwardly towards him through the water so she could lay her head on his chest, their legs tangled together, her arm around his waist. The knot on top of her head came undone and half of her hair spilled into the water. "He said _who said I was talking about you? _and it was painfully obvious he was speaking about you and Gracie and if he had known that I was pregnant, the baby would be included in that too. And then Sybil came in and saved the day," she finished in a rush, her arms banded around him, holding tight.

"Mary..." he began.

"Don't you see?" she cried out, pushing back to look up at him. "It's not me he wants to hurt. It's not me he is a danger towards. It's what I've been saying all along." Her voice quavered with panic.

"No, Mary," he cupped her cheek with a hand covered in bubbles and turned her face towards his own. "It isn't about me or about the children. It's about hurting _you_ in the worst possible way. Obviously, he's realized that what he did...before...did not break you, so he means to try again. It's always been about you, Mary. About controlling you. And Richard Carlisle is no fool, so he realizes that Gracie and I may be a means to do so."

She shuddered. "A part of me knows you're right. It was clear that he has some kind of...obsession with me. I think," she bit her lip, "because I never gave into him. I always remained unattainable. Once, he called me the cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley–and maybe this sounds crazy, but I think it was a game to him, a high stakes game, obviously, to try and make me anything other than cold and careful...Oh, I don't know!" she said at last, completely frustrated. She did not want to be in his head. She could not not analyze him without thinking of all he'd done. "I don't know him! I know bits of him. And none of the bits fit together! All I know is that I have spent the last three years trying to erase him from my life. I didn't think of him, ever, when it came to Grace. I made sure of it. I didn't put his name on the birth certificate because I would rather have faced the shame of being _that _kind of woman than even say his name aloud. I've told very few people about what happened because if I don't speak of it...But no matter what I do...he's always there, Matthew! What more do I have to do to make him go away?" she asked desperately.

He kissed every part of her face he could reach, again for no other reason than comfort. "Can you trust me to handle this? To protect you and Grace? To make him go away?"

"I...I don't know what you mean," she replied, tightening her arms around him even more. "Didn't you hear me? He threatened you, Matthew, and I understand he wants to hurt me–I do–but you said it yourself: he knows the worst thing he could do to me would be to hurt you or Grace. He would do it–I know he would–and if something happened to you..." She began to cry again. He watched her, his eyes calm, so blue, waiting; his arms held her afloat. She shuddered again and took a deep breath. "But yes, I trust you. You know I do. _But I don't trust him._"

"All right." He pressed his cheek to her forehead. "Then I want you to worry as little as possible about this. I know it's impossible not to worry. But for my sake, and for the baby...please try," he begged.

She shifted to his side, pressing her face into his neck. "It's just so hard," she whispered. "I don't know how I let this happen. I feel so stupid." She paused, and he waited for her to continue. Sometimes it seemed like whenever they talked about something difficult, he spent all the time waiting for her to get the words out and it was only one more of the many reasons she loved him. "I'm going to say the hard thing. And it really has nothing to do with him but with me." Matthew looked down at her and she closed her eyes against his stare so that she might be able to say how she felt. "In New York, I loved you. I loved you madly. But the fight we had this week, it made me realize that somewhere down the line...I don't even know when...I started to need you, to depend on you."

He hugged her more tightly against him. Though her words warmed him, he very much understood that for Mary they were hard to say, to feel. "Mary," he murmured.

"I never wanted that!" she admitted vehemently. "I never wanted to _need _anyone. And then there was Grace. And what could I do but love her and need her? And then one day you were in the park and months later, we're married with a daughter and a baby on the way and I don't even know when or how this _needing you, depending on you _came to be. I really do not. I don't like it," she confessed. "I don't like that a fight with you can turn my world upside down, that we can hurt each other that way. Of all the times we've fought–and that has been quite a few, Matthew–it never hurt, never, ever hurt the way it did this last time. And I never missed you as I did this last time."

"I know," he agreed. "I know. Because I need you too. I depend on you too."

"Well, don't!" she cried out almost desperately, though they were skin to skin and she was clutching on to him. "Because I am not a nice person or a kind person. I say things I don't mean. I try to protect myself and it ends horribly. I'll hurt you! Don't you understand? How did this happen? I never agreed to this!" She started to lift herself from the tub, but then realizing she was naked, and that he would see her, she sunk beneath the bubbles again. That she would become a tad bit more unglued when it came to this part of the conversation than the part of where she rehashed Richard's visit spoke volumes about exactly what she was worried about. Her primary concern was for him and for Grace.

"I'm afraid you did agree to this," he said, kissing her tenderly. She returned the kiss with as much desperation and passion as she'd just used during her speech. "When you agreed to marry me and then again, in front of the judge, when we were married."

"I certainly did not," she retorted, rearing back but still holding on. "I agreed to be your wife."

He tried not to laugh but, in the end, he could not hold it in. "Well, darling, what did you think that meant?"

She chewed on her lip, trying to remember her state of mind at the time. Though it was only a few months ago, in some ways it felt like a lifetime. "I thought it meant that we would be a family, that I would share Gracie, and that we would be together, only _with_ one another. It was a commitment."

"A commitment to what?" he asked, still laughing a bit, hiding his face in the curve of her neck.

"Oh, stop it," she pinched his side. "I see your point. But I don't have to like it! And it's only been a few months. What is this need, this dependence going to feel like in a year? or five? or ten?" she groaned.

"Mary, I love you, need you, depend on you in equal measure," he tried to soothe. "Does that make you feel better?"

"Perhaps a little." Her tone suggested otherwise. Whether he needed her or not, she did not find pleasure in depending on anyone. "Don't you understand that I don't like depending and needing others?"

"Yes, I believe you've made that point abundantly clear." This time they both laughed. "Why, do you think?"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," she said, suddenly sulky. Matthew realized he held in his arms a perfect picture of what Gracie would be like as an adolescent.

"If I were to hazard a guess," he said slowly, "I think, perhaps, that–people–have let you down."

"No," she shook her head. "I would go to Granny with anything. She's never let me down. I could always count on Anna. And Sybil, though she was young back then. With Mama, it depended upon the situation."

"But has there ever been a man on that list?" he asked quietly, his hand resting on her shoulder. He didn't dare look at her because the vulnerability of the question and his eyes would make her nervous.

She splashed water at him, her face petulant. "I did not give you leave to analyze me, husband." They were lying side by side, a bit squished together, and he put his arm around her to soothe and to make both of them more comfortable.

"Your father..." he began.

"Oh, my father!" she cried, a bit too loudly with Gracie in the other room. Her arms, covered in bubbles, waved in the air, nearly smacking him in the face, accidentally, of course. "Must we go back that far when we have so many more recent examples?" She did not have to say their names–Pamuk, Richard, even Matthew himself at times.

"Yes, I think we must," Matthew whispered. "You and your father seem intent on not needing or depending on one another though I know you both love each other. Which would be fine if that fear of need and dependence only included him. But it doesn't. It includes me. I can't promise never to hurt you. I think I've proven that point recently," he added ruefully. "But I can promise that you, and Gracie, and any other children we may have, will _always _be the most important things to me. Even when we are living in _that _house. I love, depend on, and need you as much as you love, depend on, and need me. You can hurt me just as easily as I can hurt you. But I can promise to fight for you, always _for_ you, and for our family, even when I am fighting _with _you."

She swallowed. "It's hard..."

"Of course it's hard for you to believe. Your father let you down. And I've been letting you down for ten years, to say nothing of others. But you must know," he hugged her tightly, feeling the swell of her belly, "that this time is different, that we are different. We've talked about it before. There are people beyond ourselves at stake–Gracie and the baby."

She nodded. "You're right. Of course you're right," she agreed. "I suppose there is nothing to be done but to continue to need and depend on you in growing measure." She sighed, turning her face to kiss him. The kiss strung out. She shifted, her wet breasts sliding against his chest. "Matthew..." she smirked, because in shifting she could feel what he had been trying to hide from her during this conversation.

"Ignore that," he said of his arousal. "It's just that you're wet and crawling all on top of me and wiggling quite dramatically. It doesn't mean I haven't been listening. It's not something I can always control, you know."

"I know you've been listening," she murmured. "You talked me down from my hysterics. You once again helped me to say the hard thing, and to be _emotional_," she spoke the repugnant word. "But I _like _that you can't control wanting me. Haven't we finished talking? How does one go about this in a bathtub?" she asked in a low tone as she nuzzled his neck and ran a wet hand through his hair.

"I wouldn't know," he whispered into her ear. "I've never been in a bathtub with anyone else, especially like this."

She moved again; some water slopped over the lip of the tub. She pressed kisses up his throat. The tops of her breasts appeared, glistening, above the bubbles. "I am the only one?" she asked shyly.

His hands slid to her hips. "The only," he promised tenderly.

Much, much, later, she lay against his chest, drowsy, as the tub drained its remaining water; the other half was on the bathroom floor. He was still inside her and he knew she was on the verge of sleep, especially because she had not noticed that bubbles were no longer covered her body from him. He had no idea how he was going to get them both out of the tub. But she lifted her head, her wet hair, clinging to his skin, and throatily reminded them both, "I am the only one."

* * *

><p>Cora had a plan. She knew the players well enough–yet, somehow, not everyone was cooperating.<p>

She'd wanted the whole family to come for dinner, _en famille_ style, a bit earlier than normal, a bit more casual so the children could attend as well. She'd even bought two high chairs and planned a seating arrangement to include her adorable grandchildren. But when she spoke with Carson, explaining her wishes, he very kindly, very graciously suggested she speak with his Lordship on the matter before planning the menu.

Oh, and there was the rub.

Because she did know the players, she didn't bother to ask Robert about a casual family dinner with highchairs and grandchildren. She scowled at Carson, knowing he was right, and suggested they change it to a casual luncheon. She could compromise when the end goal was so important.

She invited Edith but Sir Antony gently advised her that they weren't quite ready to venture out for luncheon. She understood, of course. Her heart was breaking for Edith. She knew what it meant to lose a baby, a son.

So it would be the Bransons and the Crawleys and Grandpapa and Grandmama, and Isobel, and Robert's mother, of course (though it seemed that those _two_ got to spend plenty of time with the children!). She seated Robert at the head and placed each highchair on either side of him, then Sybil beside Robbie and Mary beside Gracie. Robert would not be forced to care for the children (she rolled her eyes at the thought) but she hoped with proximity would come warmth. Robbie's birthday was coming up and he had already announced his outlandish plan to Cora. So far, she not be able to talk him out of it. But maybe, if he sat next to the children...

It seemed as though, ever since Sybil had left to marry Branson and Mary had left for New York, the words _maybe if _were Cora's constant companions in trying to heal the relationships in her family. Not just _maybe if, _but _maybe if I..._.though she knew that it had to be Robert who did the mending, when he was the one who was just so angry.

One night, before he turned off the light, she said in her tinny voice, "I understand why you're angry, Robert."

He guffawed. "Do you?" he asked; it was obvious he believed she had no idea why he was angry with his daughters.

However, if you asked Cora, Robert _himself_ didn't know why he was angry with them. "They've grown up," she replied, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly.

He sputtered, quite literally. He tossed back the covers and said rather loudly and emphatically, "That is _not _why I am angry with them."

"Then why?" she asked, her guileless eyes wide.

He'd stomped off to sleep in the dressing room.

But at this luncheon, _maybe if _he had to see the children up close, he would come to love them as they were, instead of just for the blood that ran through their veins.

She was nearly wringing her hands in nervousness. She wanted to know her grandchildren. She wanted them to know her. So far it seemed they spent time with every other relation other than herself and Robert.

_Maybe if._

* * *

><p>Gracie loved green beans. She finished her portion, with help from Mama, and noticed that Grandpapa was pushing his green beans to the edge of his plate, as if he did not want them. "Mo,'" she asked, voicing the question not to Mama but to the man on her left, taking care to gently point to his plate. "You," she added when he looked up at her.<p>

"Gracie," Mama warned. "Here, try this..."

"You want my green beans?" Robert asked the little girl, a miniature of Mary, so much so that it startled him at times. She nodded yes but, before he could scoop all of them onto her plate, she pulled on his cuff and explained quite explicitly–though without words–that he should feed them to her as her mother did. Robert looked at Mary who was sipping water and refusing to meet his eyes. He lifted a small green bean onto his fork and fed it to the little girl.

"Mmm," she smiled.

From across the table, Robbie, nearly two, announced, "Me too. Me too."

Sybil looked down at her son. Robbie could not be prevailed upon to eat anything _green_. Yet much as Mary had, she lifted her glass and when the sisters' eyes met it was intimate as pinkies linked together.

So Robert put another green bean on his fork, this one a little bigger. Robbie was a boy after all, and a little older, too.

Gracie clapped for her cousin. Back and forth Robert went, feeding his grandchildren like baby birds. When he finished, he looked up to find everyone's eyes very deliberately _not _on him and the children. "I daresay that was much easier than trying to feed the green beans to Isis as I normally do," he joked.

Every shoulder at the table relaxed. The family smiled and began to talk of other things. Robert did not wholly ignore the children. When Gracie ran out of water, he poured some of his own into her glass before Carson could get to it. Robbie giggled when Robert tried to eat a bit of potato and the bite slipped off the fork, making Robert laugh, too.

"I _do _wish Edith was here, too," Cora murmured without thinking.

"Yes, Cora," Robert agreed from across the table. They were on the dessert course, though he'd yet to eat a bite since his grandchildren were taking such delight in his chocolate ice cream. "But we have to understand."

"We'll just have to do what we can for her," Isobel repeated her usual mantra. "It is a very difficult time."

Neither Mary nor Sybil chose to enter the conversation and neither did their husbands.

"Of course," Robert agreed with Isobel. "I just wish...Well, at least you two girls are getting on splendidly," he stated with forced cheer towards Mary and Sybil. "And Mary, maybe you're carrying an heir. Think of it!"

Mary dropped her spoon on the tablecloth, where it left an ugly brown mark. "I'm sorry," she whispered for the mistake with the spoon.

But Robert wasn't even looking at her. He was thinking of Downton, of his life's work. "I can't imagine anything could make me happier than if you and Matthew had a son," he continued sincerely, a bit of a lump in his throat, unaware that his words would be offensive not only to Mary, Matthew, and Gracie, but also to Sybil and Tom, and to the grandson he already had.

"Robert," his mother snapped from the other end of the table. "How is it possible for you to _ruin_ a perfectly delightful luncheon?"

"Granny," Mary murmured. "Isobel," she added, "I wonder if we could ask a favor of you both. Would you mind taking the children into the library and entertaining them for a bit?" They both nodded and Mary and Sybil got to work at removing both children from the high chairs, and wiping their sticky hands. Gracie and Robbie dutifully followed the women, Carson discreetly closing the door behind them.

Mary opened her mouth to speak but felt her husband lay a hand on her thigh beneath the table. He spoke instead. "I don't want those sentiments ever repeated, Robert. All right?" his voice was hard and Robert looked taken aback by it all.

Because hadn't it been a wonderful luncheon? Hadn't he enjoyed the children? Wasn't it nice of him to wish his daughters well in their pregnancies? And then, suddenly, certainly without any provocation on _his_ part, Mama is snapping at him and the children are ushered out of the room, and Matthew, who in better times Robert considered a son, is speaking to him in such an angry tone.

"I do not understand any of this," Robert replied. He was very confused, in fact.

"If you are so ignorant that you cannot understand why a comment like that would be hurtful and _wrong _to both of our families," Matthew gestured towards the Bransons, "then I don't know if it's worth explaining to you."

"What comment? What did I say?" If Violet had been in the room, she would have dropped her napkin on the table and sighed deeply at his childish defensiveness.

"The comment in which you compared me to brood mare?" Mary said, lifting one eyebrow elegantly.

"What she means, Papa," Sybil explained, her voice deceptively calm, "is when you said that _nothing would make you happier than if Mary and Matthew gave you a grandson_."

"We've already given you a grandson," Tom added softly. "A wonderful one if you cared to notice. He's named for you."

Robert still did not quite understand, which spoke to the gravity of the problem. "Of course I think Robbie is wonderful but he is not..."

"What?" Sybil snapped. "An heir? He's not an heir. Yes, we know. _We know_!" Her volume rose with every word, until she was nearly shouting. "We know because you've thought that of all three of your daughters, too. Our whole damn lives!" She mocked him: "Well, they're lovely but...none of them are boys. None of them can be my heir. Good thing we have Patrick." She snorted, "God help poor Matthew that he _is _your heir."

"Sybil..." Robert sputtered. He looked to his wife for help but she was staring down at her lap, as if...as if she were ashamed of him.

"What if I have a girl, Papa?" Mary asked softly. "And Sybil has another boy? Will you think, bloody hell, if only there was a way for those two girls to switch wombs or even husbands?" Her comment was shocking on several levels but no one except Robert seemed put off by the audacity of it. In fact, everyone else seemed to be nodding.

"Mary! Do not speak to me..."

"As you speak to her?" Matthew interrupted. "I've stayed out of your relationship with your daughter because I had no right to speak before. Even when I thought it was ridiculous that I cared to look more into the entail than you did, even before Mary was nothing more than a new cousin to me. But I'm her husband now and I'm not staying out of it anymore. Do you even understand the level of condescension you reach whenever you talk about _the dynasty of Downton_, _the future of Downton_?" He stood up and took Mary's elbow so she followed. Across from them, the Bransons stood, as well. "You must think me a very poor _heir _to want a healthy baby, a happy baby, giving no thought to the sex!" He, too, was shouting by this point and he did not care (though it was a bit out of character for him). He'd held his tongue long enough on the matter.

When only Robert and Cora were left at the table, Cora looked up at her husband. She was crying but she shook her head when he tried to speak. "They never come here, you know. I never get to spend time with them. Did you have to ruin this too?" she murmured before exiting the room quietly. She could not think of a single _maybe if _to repair the damage Robert had caused.

* * *

><p>Neither Matthew nor Mary could fall asleep that night. Mary lay on her back, her hand low on her belly. <em>No matter what or who you are, we love you, <em>she thought towards the baby. _We love you so very much. _

Matthew had kicked all the covers off, as if his residual anger made him hot.

They both wanted to say: _I hate that man. I hate him. _But they could not.

Finally, after an hour of silence, Mary turned to him in the darkness. She reached for his hand and brought it to her cheek. "What if it _is_ a boy?" she asked brokenly.

"Mary," he sighed, turning towards her. His impatience was not directed at her; how could she not need reassurance when her father spoke as he did? "I've told you a million times–"

"No." She shook her head. She was crying but she was so used to that by now, she didn't bother to comment or make excuses for her tears. "Let me finish. What if this baby," she pressed his hand to her belly, "is a boy–and what if Gracie had been a boy as well?"

"I don't understand the question," he admitted, stroking her belly now.

"Oh, don't be dense, Matthew," she cried. "Who would be the heir then?"

Though the answer came to him instantly, he knew Mary well enough that if he answered too quickly she would think him insincere. If he took too long, she would call him a liar. So he waited for what he judged the right amount of time, then kissed her furrowed brow. "Why, Gracie, of course. Since she'd be my first born son." He chuckled a little. "Though that sentence is odd to say aloud..." He broke off because his mouth's wife was suddenly covering his own.

She shook her head, tears flowing down her cheeks as she pressed her lips to his. He did not understand, he could not understand that he'd just given her the final piece to put the whole thing to bed. He loved Gracie in the exact same way as he loved this baby. And suddenly it did not seem so very terrible to need and depend on a man like this. For the first time ever, she had absolutely no reservations over giving her heart to someone other than her children. She had never loved Matthew more than in that moment.

He was a bit taken aback by her enthusiastic change of mood but did not argue as his hands slid into her hair and they drew breath from one another's mouths, as if they would rather drown then break away from one another. Her hands moved from his cheeks to the buttons of his pajamas, her fingers stumbling. She could not make them work. Before she knew what she was doing, she was ripping the buttons from their threads and maybe on a different night or at a different time, they would have taken the time to laugh, but not this night, not this time. They could not stop kissing long enough to laugh and then, since they were both on their sides, he was reaching for her leg, blindly, because her tongue was making his eyes cross, and pulling it over his own hip, then sliding that same hand under her nightgown, caressing as he went, his mouth absorbing her sighs and moans until he reached her breasts.

It was actually a complicated bit of business because she was trying to remove his shirt and one of his hands was tangled in her hair, the other cupping her breast, so then she reached for his pants, but her own leg betrayed her intentions and would simply not stop pulling him nearer and nearer, until they could be no closer.

It appeared they were at an impasse.

This was fine with both of them since it still felt as if they were making up for all the dozens of kisses they'd missed the past week. Finally, Mary forfeited and raised her hands above her head (quite awkwardly on her side) and Matthew pushed the nightgown up as far as her neck, where they had to break their kiss for just a moment, only a moment, a moment, so he could get her naked. Before he could take hold of her again, she removed his shirt (with his help) and his pants (also with his help) all while kissing as if their very lives depended on it, because it felt as if they did.

His hands tickled her sides, brushing against her skin, then rose to touch her breasts again, gently tracing her nipples in that maddening way that made her groan. He wanted to take them into his mouth but even the thrill of that thought could not tear his lips from hers. So down his hands went again, replacing her leg over his hip where it belonged, lightly running just the tip of his finger in between her legs, circling there. He had to absorb her gasps and moans, even before he rubbed himself where his hand just been and they both groaned low in the their throats at the same time.

They were still kissing when he slid inside of her. When they began to move, their lips still touched, their breaths still mingled, but one couldn't exactly call it _kissing_, since the overall pleasure of everything _else _seemed to take over. They were perfectly in tune; he slipped his arms under hers so he could grab onto her shoulders from behind and press himself even deeper inside of her, the whole time, their mouths open and gasping and groaning loudly into one another's. When she came, she bit his lip so hard she drew blood. A moment later, when he did, he let out a yell that would have embarrassed both of them if they had their faculties about them.

They lay there, naked, wrapped in each other, the coverlet somewhere on the floor, for a long time. Finally, Mary whispered, "I can't feel my lips. They've gone numb."

"Mine too," he said, sounding drugged. "Except for the spot where you bit me."

"I'm sorry," she replied.

"Don't be," he said against her neck. "Please God, don't be."

"All right," she replied. "I'm not sorry for that _or_ for ripping all the buttons off your shirt."

Though it took a great deal of effort, he lifted his head. "You did?"

She nodded, her gaze twitching between his eyes and his lips.

"Well, that's just resourceful, darling." He pressed his bleeding lip to her numb ones.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Let me hear ya! _How about Mary and Matthew finally talking about Richard? _Will Robert ever get it? Will Cora ever get to spend time with her grandbabies? And Mary asking some tough questions of Matthew about their children and Matthew having all the right answers? And the ripped buttons, of course? No, but seriously. Let me hear ya! I always reply. xx_


	37. Chapter 37

_A/N: First, I have to tell you that this website has been having all sorts of problems, so if you subscribe to this story, and only check in when you receive an email, on more than one occasion in the past month, those emails have been delayed by days. What I can promise (unless something crazy happens) is that you can depend (unless something crazy happens) on a chapter every other day, usually at the end of the day on this side of the pond. So, if you are desperate for an update, and don't have an email, I would check to see if a chapter was indeed posted. Okay. Cool. Also, I must thank_ **Faeyero, **_for her work. She works hard and deserves some street cred ;)_

* * *

><p>Chapter Thirty Seven<p>

Mary could not remember feeling nervous at any point during her pregnancy with Gracie, other than the moment when she realized she was actually about to give birth and become truly responsible for another human being's life. She had been aware, of course, that even in the new and inventive twenties, when so many things were changing, pregnancy and labor were nearly as dangerous as they had always been. Maybe it had been the Lady Mary in her, the woman who thought nothing truly horrible could happen to her, that kept the nervousness, the fear, at bay. She doubted it, though, because by then, Lady Mary was very much aware that horrible things could happen to her. By then, horrible things _had_.

Instead, she thought now, it had been more a bartering with God. Surely He would not take her or her child, not after what she'd borne in the small library. She had a stronghold of confidence that everything would go as planned; surely the small library had _earned_ her that. The only bit of true fear had come when the doctor wanted to use anesthesia during the labor. If her mother had been there, or one of her sisters, Mary would have allowed it, of course. But not when it was only the doctor and a nurse she did not know. Her baby had no one else but _her. _So she remained awake and very much aware throughout the process.

Now, waiting for Dr. George with Matthew beside her, Mary recognized not just a nervousness in the back of her throat, but panic in her belly. The last time she saw this man, he had been reassuring her sister that still born babies were not uncommon, that he and his wife (as fertile as they seemed to be) had even experienced it. She tapped her foot on the floor. She pulled at the bracelet on her wrist.

"Mary..." Matthew began.

She literally shrugged off his voice, as if it were too heavy upon her shoulders. "I know you want to say something kind and comforting but please. I just...please." What could he say that would be a comfort? Could he promise that at the end of this pregnancy, she would be holding a wriggling baby, with ten fingers and ten toes, and eyes that opened? Of course not.

So the room remained quiet but for the tapping of her foot. Why did a pregnancy have to take nine months? Why had no one invented something to make sure the baby had a healthy heart beat before twenty weeks? It was 1922 for God's sake.

Dr. George knocked softly at the door, then entered. "Hello, Mr. Crawley, Lady Mary." He smiled, but his smile was not as bright as it had been upon their first visit. "I must offer my condolences over your nephew."

Matthew thanked him because Mary could not. Her throat went dry and her eyes burned. It was not that she was angry at Edith; she only wished she could offer her sister condolences for losing her _son. _

Dr. George weighed her, as he had last time. "Well done," he encouraged; she'd made quite a fuss during her last visit about the amount of weight she'd gained. With an apologetic look at Matthew, he gently palpated her abdomen (which was more than her other doctor had ever done). Then he took her temperature and her blood pressure.

When he was finished, he took a seat in front of them and Mary moved back to her original chair. "Over all, I'm very pleased," Dr. George commented pleasantly. "The only thing is–and I know you don't want to hear this, Lady Mary, but–you could stand to gain a few more pounds."

Mary's mouth dropped open. "But my belly is bigger at three and a half months than it was during my last pregnancy!"

He acknowledged her comment with a nod but continued. "I did tell you that you would start to show earlier with a second pregnancy, but you also likely gained weight all over in your last pregnancy, and this time you are not. Essentially, the way your body is carrying this child is different. That's not unusual." He smiled. "You aren't underweight. But it wouldn't hurt for you to indulge in some of your favorite things. All in all, I believe things are coming along marvelously."

Dr. George and Matthew shared a look that had Mary watching the two of them very carefully. She was not slow-witted. "However," the doctor continued, "your husband had made me aware that you have been under a great deal of stress as of late."

She raised an eyebrow but didn't bother to look at Matthew. "_Oh, has he_?"

Dr. George smothered another smile. "He didn't go into particulars, of course, but what he did say had me a bit concerned for you and for the baby."

"_Concerned_?" she asked, in a hard voice. She threw up her hands, a very unladylike response. "Well, Dr. George, life is stressful. What should I do? Take a holiday?"

He nodded. "I think that an excellent idea."

"Well, I do not," she said stubbornly, recovering herself. "We have a daughter and responsibilities."

"I'm sure Mother could..." Matthew broke off when Mary's eyes flashed towards him.

"Lady Mary, let me be frank. I think you know–I think you've seen–that even with all the advances of the 1920's, pregnancy can still be a dangerous condition. From what Mr. Crawley has said...all I can say is that I am concerned and I think, just a few days, to relax and unwind would be good for you and the baby."

"Are you claiming that if I do not take this holiday that I would be putting my child at risk?" Lady Mary asked, arching her eyebrow and pointedly ignoring her husband.

Dr. George seemed unaffected by her pretensions. He let out a chuckle. "Of course I am not claiming that. But I do think that, given the amount of stress you have been under, a weekend away would do you a world of good. Do not forget, Lady Mary, that a pregnancy–even one with no complications–can be difficult on a woman's body. I am simply suggesting you give yourself a brief reprieve from the current difficulties in your life."

"I don't want to be coddled. I don't believe in it," she insisted. She would have stood but it seemed ridiculous when both men were only watching her patiently. "We would go away and come back to those same difficulties. What is the point of that?"

"The point is, your husband is concerned. I understand and share his concerns. As your husband, he has the distinct privilege of coddling you as he sees fit. As your doctor, I have the distinct privilege of recommending what I see fit." His answer was calm and patient but Mary, a stubborn person herself, recognized that he would not be one to relent.

"A few days?" she asked doubtfully, twisting her wedding rings around her finger.

"That's all. And it will be a very long time before you two are alone together. Don't forget," he said with a wink, "you're entering the second trimester. You'll know from your first pregnancy that you've begun the best part of the whole nine months. The sick is gone, your energy is up and you aren't uncomfortable as you will be later in the pregnancy."

"I know," she lamented. "I know." Then she realized what he was saying. She stopped playing with her rings and looked over at her husband and blushed.

"I can't force you to take a holiday, of course. I can tell you, though, as a doctor, a father, _and_ a husband that I would go, if I were you. And..." his eyes twinkled, "if you do as I ask then we will schedule your next appointment at twenty weeks. It's more than a month away but I have no concerns other than your stress level, and you'll be able to hear the heartbeat at that appointment. Of course, you can always call or come in if need be."

Her eyes had brightened at the prospect of hearing the baby's heartbeat, and she saw that same excitement in Matthew's eyes. But by the end of his speech, her eyes had again narrowed. "Yes, apparently _one _can call you with any concerns _one _has. It sounds as if you and my husband are the best of friends." She smirked a little. "May I have a copy of the book you're writing, so that _I_ may be included in the knowledge _you men_ have of my pregnancy?" Matthew smothered a laugh with his hand and a pretend cough. There were moments, like these, when it was as if Cousin Violet's voice came from Mary's mouth. He wondered how the good doctor would handle Mary's version of her granny.

"Oh course," he chortled. "Though, please be kind. It's rough yet."

* * *

><p>One of the cars from the Abbey was sitting in front of Crawley House when Mary and Matthew returned from the doctor. They looked at each other before hurrying up the steps. In the sitting room, Isobel was sitting awkwardly beside Cora, who held a rather unhappy Gracie in her lap; undoubtedly the little girl would prefer to be running through the house with Baby. It seemed as if lately Grace was never still unless she was on the brink of sleeping, or if the dog was in the mood for a cuddle instead of a chase.<p>

"Mama!" Mary said, more than a bit surprised to see her, and reached back for Matthew's hand without realizing it. Visions of what this visit might entail filled her head, and Mary understood perfectly why Matthew thought getting away for a few days might be for the best. She almost wished they'd left directly from the doctor's office.

"Hello, Mary. Hello, Matthew," Cora demurred.

Gracie wiggled out of her grandmother's arms and ran for Matthew. "Papa!" He caught her on the fly and hefted her into the air so that she giggled before he gave her a kiss. "Lalou!"

"Say hello to Mama as well," he told her and she leaned forward to press her lips to Mama's, too.

"Hullo, Mama!" she cheered. She reached down as far as she could in Matthew's arms and patted Mary somewhere just below her breasts. "Hullo, Baby!"

Mary made eye contact with Matthew. She knew that he would do as she liked–stay for the conversation with Cora or leave them to speak privately. Mary gripped his hand. Something had shifted last night, as they discussed the last hypothetical question she could think of when it came to _both _of their children. Here was a man who knew her and loved her and would fight for her. She needed him and the thought did not terrify so much as comfort since the tension in the room was as palpable as a giant balloon that could pop at any moment.

In the meantime, Matthew and his mother communicated silently and she came and took Gracie in her arms. "Let's go play with Baby outside. Shall we, Gracie?" she asked cheerfully and Gracie threw her arms around her Gran, her Iz because this had been what she wanted the entire time Grandmama had insisted she remain on her lap.

"Iz! Iz!" Gracie chanted until her voice was quieted by the shutting of the back door. Cora flinched.

As Isobel passed, Mary got a good look at Cora's face. She'd seen that same look on Edith's face recently. Could it be–jealousy, envy–over Isobel's relationship with Grace? Could it really be something as simple and as complicated as _that_?

Matthew and Mary took seats in chairs across from the divan. "Thank you for seeing me," Cora said graciously, but there was a certain hardness behind her tone that gave Mary pause. Even when she had lived in the same house as Cora, it had always surprised her when her mother's voice had hardened like that. She certainly was a woman who picked her battles, who understood that much could be accomplished with sweetness. Her outbursts occurred when she could no longer wrap her feelings up in up in that sweetness. Cora was angry with them now, and must have been for some time to speak in such a way. But over what? Especially after what Papa had said. Mary felt awful for Matthew who would be less than knowledgeable when it came to the intricate familial dynamics of the Crawley women, and probably had no idea what type of conversation he was sitting in on.

"I'm surprised to see you, Mama," Mary murmured. "But you know you are always welcome here."

"Am I?" Cora retorted. She could not raise one eyebrow as her daughter could but she could lower both of hers, creating furrows in an almost entirely wrinkle free face.

"Just speak plainly, Mama. It has been a long day, a long week, a long month and I am very tired," Mary finally said, exasperated. She could not play this game. In many ways, even when growing up, even after she was angry with her Papa, he remained the one Mary understood. She'd never had much patience when it came to Mama.

"I wonder if Sybil told you that they moved into the Dower House with your grandmother today," Cora replied, her eyes on her lap. She missed the moment when Matthew and Mary shared looks of shock. "I tried to convince her to stay but she wouldn't hear of it. Not after what your father said. Of course, I understand your anger and Sybil's as well...but Isobel's and your grandmother's interference isn't helping matters," she sighed. "You must see that." Her cloying sweetness and feminine grace returned when she gave her entreaty.

Mary knew Matthew was watching her. She had to take a long breath and let it out before she spoke. "Isobel and Granny have been nothing but wonderful since we arrived and I am sure Sybil shares those sentiments. They have been very helpful with the children. I would not call their behavior an _interference_."

Cora dropped her tea cup to its saucer with a heavy clank and set it aside. "Well you see, that's just it. I _would _call it an interference when they are interfering with _my_ role in _my_ granddaughter's life. I _am_ Grace's grandmother."

Mary nodded. "Of course you are, Mama, but..."

"I understand that your father has made things difficult. Believe me, I know. And I have spoken to him again and again. But why should I pay the price for his inadequacies? Grace is _my _granddaughter_._"

Mary felt Matthew stiffen next to her. She turned and looked at him quizzically, then sighed. "Mama...I have no quarrel with you..." she began, exhaustion threading through her voice. She remembered when Matthew had first come to Downton and her mother had wanted her to be kind to him, to encourage his advances, and her voice had come out of her chest, throaty and deep in a tone she'd never heard from sweet, sweet Mama: _For once in your life, please just listen!_

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mary." Matthew laid a hand on his wife's knee. "But I think your mother is trying to make a point. You might as well just say it, Cora." He did not deign to add the respect of _cousin _before her Christian name, not when he thought he knew why she was really here, in their house.

"Matthew, you are very good with Grace. I'm not trying to say that you aren't," Cora began patronizingly. "It's obvious that you care for her, that you are good to her. And I am thankful for that. But..." she pressed her lips together, "it just doesn't seem fair to me that _your mother_ should know her better than..."

"_Stop_." Mary knew her voice was harsh. She meant it to be. "If you had come here to apologize for Papa, or even just to see Grace, I would have tried to find a way for you to know her, apart from Papa, since that is just...simply a mess. I see your point that our problems with Papa have kept you at a distance from Gracie, and for that, I am sorry. But you have insulted me by referring to a subject you _promised_, you _swore_," her lips trembled but her eyes were dry, "you would _never_ speak of. How _dare_ you talk to Matthew that way? How _dare _you insinuate...? To speak of Isobel like that? I thought you were better than that. I thought I could depend on you." She took a shaky breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was hoarse. "I thought you loved me more than that." She stood, hurt and enraged, a bit dizzy and swaying. Matthew reached for her but she regained her balance on her own and hurried upstairs, slamming the bedroom door as hard as she possibly could.

Cora was in tears. They fell delicately from her eyes. "I didn't mean–"

Matthew found it hard to be sympathetic. "I think you _did_ mean it, Cora. I think you've grown more and more agitated as you've observed the closeness of _my family_,_ my daughter _with my mother and with Cousin Violet." His mouth hardened. "I wish you had realized that we didn't come up to the house as often not because of you, but because of your husband. Most of all, I wish you had not just revealed how you really feel about my relationship with Grace, because now I'm afraid Mary won't want to see you at all–and you've certainly lost me as an ally."

"Matthew," she pleaded, stretching out a hand to him. "You have to understand. This was never what I expected or wanted or dreamed for my girls. Robert and I are trying to sort it all out. Perhaps we aren't doing it very well, but maybe someday when your child is born you will understand..."

"Cora," he said sternly. "I already have a child. Her name is Grace Violet Crawley. I understand what it means to have expectations but I hope, if there ever comes a day when Grace does not meet my expectations of her, that I will love her and support her anyway."

"I would do _anything _for my girls," she said hoarsely. For God's sake, she'd carried a dead man across the house. "_You don't know what I have done for Mary_," she added, an edge to her voice.

"Are we speaking of Mr. Pamuk?" Matthew asked calmly. "Yes, you kept that secret very well. I can only assume that Mary hoped–as did I–that you would treat Grace's parentage not as a secret to be kept but a fact. I am Grace's father..."

"Yes, I know," Cora interrupted, glad they could agree on something. "In every way that matters, you are her father. I only want to _know _my granddaughter. Should I be punished for that?"

He shook his head, pressing his hands to his eyes. "Well, it seems we've come full circle now, Cora. The reason we are so close with my mother and with Cousin Violet is because their answer to that question has always been: _I am Grace's father in every way. Period_." He stood. He knew perfectly well and had known since they received Cousin Violet's letter and his mother's card that Isobel knew Grace did not belong to Matthew biologically. But from the moment she learned that Matthew considered himself to be Grace's father, she had never once questioned him or Mary; she'd only been delighted to have a granddaughter. Then, his mother had learned of the small library. She was curious woman by nature and yet there had been no curiosity, only an unwavering devotion to Matthew, Mary, and Grace. Grace was her grandchild _in every single way._ The evidence of Isobel's love and pleasure in her granddaughter was everywhere–the way Isobel held Grace's hand, the way Isobel spoke to Grace, as if every conversation was a singular joy, the way Isobel watched the little girl when she was unawares, the smiled that played around Isobel's mouth. "I think you should leave now," he told Cora.

Her tears were falling more rapidly and he sensed she felt something like bewildered regret, as if she knew she had gone wrong but could not point out where. She and Robert had that in common, Matthew thought. But he suspected she also felt a sense of betrayal that he would force her to leave in such a manner, with so little respect, that Mary would stomp up to her room, like a child. And above all, Matthew could sense the hard lump of jealousy in her throat that Isobel was outside romping around with _her granddaughter_.

She stood, ever graceful, and wiped the tears from her face. He wondered how she would explain the red eyes to Robert–Grace's grandfather did not particularly want to know her and Grace's grandmother was angry she did not know the child better.

She did not slam the door as Mary had. No, the tiny click as it shut was enough to make a statement. _Look how mature I am. I do not stomp. I do not slam doors. _Yet, Matthew knew it was Cora who was acting like a child, making Grace a toy that she did not want to share.

* * *

><p>Mary wasn't sleeping but she was burrowed in the blankets when she heard the door open, followed by the soft padding of little feet and Matthew's whispers. And then her whole world was in the bed, Gracie taking both of Mary's cheeks in her hands, giving her such a sweet kiss and murmuring, "Lalou, Mama."<p>

"Tell Mama what we brought her," Matthew encouraged. He could see the evidence of earlier tears on her face. "Because even though she missed dinner," he looked at her significantly, reminding her of what Dr. George said, "we didn't want her to miss the dessert Mrs. Byrd made." He'd come up twice since she originally retreated to the bedroom. The first time, he'd hugged her as she apologized over and over again for her family. He could not tell her that she'd missed the worst of Cora's zingers. The second time, to tell her dinner was ready, he found her asleep and could not bear to wake her up.

"Cream," Gracie supplied.

Mary sat up and kissed Gracie all over her face until her giggles went on and on. "You brought me ice cream?" She continued to kiss her until the little girl shrieked.

"Papa, too!" she chirped.

"Papa brought me ice cream, too?" Mary asked Gracie, and the little girl nodded. So Mary leaned over and pressed her lips to Matthew's as well.

"Mo,'" Gracie demanded.

"Oh, you think Papa deserves more kisses than I've given him?" she asked her daughter with the curls that bounced as she bopped around and the silly smile.

"Papa thinks so," Matthew put in, and Gracie nodded along with him. "We took a vote, you see."

Mary took the ice cream he offered and set it aside on the side table. "All right. I'll give Papa more kisses, Gracie, if you'll help me tickle him!" The little girl leapt on top of her father and, though her hands were tiny, she was surprisingly adept at tickling his sides and under his arms while Mary pressed kiss after kiss all over his face, exaggerating the smacking sounds her puckered lips made. "All right," he said, laughing despite himself. "The ice cream is melting!"

Gracie and Mary–like mother, like daughter–immediately stopped their ministrations and Mary reached for the ice cream. "Do you want to share with Mama?" Mary asked, and Gracie rolled her eyes (what a perfect miniature of Mary she was!) as if to say: _I believe that was the whole point._

The three of them enjoyed the ice cream, sharing the single spoon. After a awhile, there was a scratching at the door. "Ooooh, Baby!" Gracie cried. She turned to her mother. "Mama?" Before Mary could reply, Gracie was calling upon all her acting skills–her lower lip trembled, her dark lashes swept away tears.

"Oh, all right," Mary muttered, realizing she was fighting a battle she'd already lost. "Go and get Baby."

Matthew would have made a sarcastic comment that he wasn't the only soft hearted one but before he could Mary kissed him, her mouth cold and tasting of strawberries, lingering over his lips. Gracie struggled a bit with the door and the excited puppy ran through it so quickly, she skidded across the floor. "Thank you," Mary whispered. "For this. I'm sorry for my mother," she repeated.

"You're not responsible for her actions, Mary," he replied in an undertone while Gracie tried to lift an increasingly large Baby onto the bed.

"I never said that dog could get into bed with us," Mary said firmly. Gracie turned to her again, her lower lip quivering. "Oh, fine," she retorted before her daughter could negotiate with tears. "But only this once."

Matthew turned his face to hide a smile.

They fell asleep curled together, the three of them, four including Baby, the canine, and five including Baby, the human. Later, Mary stirred and woke, her stomach growling. She untangled herself from her blankets which, of course, woke Matthew. He lay watching her, silent and still, his eyes so blue in the dark. Finally, when she had finished extricating herself from the covers, he whispered, "Are you hungry?"

"A little, yes," she whispered back, which was a bit of a lie because she was, in fact, starving.

He smiled, but she noticed the sadness in his eyes and knew her mother must have struck several more verbal blows before leaving. Mary walked over to his side of the bed and knelt so that when he turned his face towards her, their noses nearly touched. "I love you," she said slowly and deliberately, her eyes on his. "I don't tell you enough, not straight out like that when I'm wide awake and you're not kissing me. But I do."

His hand found its way into her hair. "I know."

She touched her nose to his. "Still, it's nice to hear?"

He smiled. "It is that."

"And let's go away, like you suggested. I think it's a wonderful idea," she whispered.

"I must look very pathetic for you to sound so enthusiastic," he replied, the hand in her hair now finding the back of her neck.

"I love you," she repeated. "You're my husband and the father of my children and I love you. Do you know what a miracle that is considering the last ten years? And I don't care what anyone says or what anyone thinks."

"I know," Matthew replied. "And I can't tell you what that means to me." He tilted his head, his eyes steady on hers. "Still, sometimes people we love, people we respect, can hit a nerve. That's what happened today and yesterday as well." He frowned slightly. "I suppose that was just one more reason for you to stay away, besides the obvious."

"I don't understand them," she murmured. They were speaking quietly even though Gracie slept very much like her mother, deeply and enthusiastically. "Even when I didn't agree with them, I used to be able to understand them. But I don't anymore. And I'm glad of that. But Matthew," she reached out and cupped his cheek in her hand, "maybe they'll come around. With you. With me. With Gracie, too."

He knew it spoke to the extent of her love for him that she would be so positive when she'd been nothing but defeatist when it came to her father (and now, he supposed, that included her mother). "Maybe," he whispered.

She smiled and rose to go to the kitchen. He rolled to reach for Gracie and carry her to her crib. He pressed his nose to her hair. _You are mine. You are ours. _In the end, he had to carry a sleeping Baby to her crate as well since several attempts to rouse her failed. Mary seemed to be a devouring a feast in the kitchen so he returned to their bed alone and forced himself to sleep, though he could have easily spent hours worrying over Cora's words.

When he woke next, it was because moonlight was cutting across his face through a gap in the curtains, which had been opened just a bit. Then her voice was at his ear. "Now don't get too excited. And maybe if you could, kind of, _squint _when you look at me..." He turned to find his wife lying next to him, completely naked in the moonlight. He could see every part of her, and brushed a hand from her throat to her belly. "You're not squinting," she insisted, biting her lip nervously.

He leaned forward to kiss her. "You're naked," he said in wonder, "and I can _see_ you."

She winced. "Yes, well. You _did _bring me ice cream in bed earlier..."

He rolled her gently onto her back, leaning up on one elbow so he could just take her in. He circled his fingers around her nipples. "These are darker," he observed, "than the last time you let me see you naked, which was ages ago."

"Didn't I tell you to squint? Do we have to take a bloody inventory of what pregnancy has done to my body?" she complained. He thought perhaps, with her cursing and complaints, that he'd never loved her more.

He nodded slowly, seriously. "I think I must." He dipped his head, lavishing one breast and then the other with his mouth, which she seemed to enjoy given the way her hands found their way into his hair and the moan that started in the back of her throat. Then he was pressing kisses down the center of her chest until he reached the swell of her belly, his breath warm against her skin, his fingers drawing designs upon it.

"Are you squinting?" she asked, but there was a breathlessness to her voice, and humor there as well.

"I love you," he told her–or perhaps it was the baby. Who knew? Wasn't it one and the same? He kissed her belly before moving back up towards her mouth and repeating the words: "I love you. Thank you for taking care of me."

"That's not what this is," she disagreed, perfectly serious, her eyebrow arching.

"Oh?" His tone matched hers; that she would try to spare his dignity meant a great deal. "So I'm supposed to believe it's just a coincidence that I needed a bit of cheering up, and after weeks of not letting me seeing you with a hint of light in the room, you're naked in the moonlight."

"No, I don't expect you to believe it is a coincidence." She smiled slyly at him. "You obviously have not read Dr. George's book as thoroughly as I have. I believe I am quoting chapter four when I say, _As the fourteenth week begins, your wife may come to you in the middle of the night, open the curtains, and lie naked beside you._"

He found it absolutely necessary to kiss her. "Well you certainly put a dent in the book you just got this morning."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm a quick reader. Now," she demanded, "am I to be the only naked one in this bed?"

"Oh, you want me to go and get the dog then? You finally want to make peace with her and have her curl up near your feet?" he asked so seriously that they both burst into giggles.

She rolled over on top of him and whispered in his ear, her breath warm there so that he ached, "Matthew, make love with me?" He was used to the ache; he'd been aching with need for her for years, but that he could do something about the ache still seemed miraculous. In many ways, though out of necessity they had "skipped" ahead on the marriage and family track, they were still newlyweds.

How could he deny her request?

Later, the both of them lay naked and tangled, too tired to fix the curtain. She'd nearly fallen asleep before she remembered and mumbled drowsily, "Let's go away. Like you said. I want to."

He was not as tired as she was. "All right. I have some things to take care of this next week-so the weekend after next."

It was very lucky indeed that she was too tired to ask _what things he had to take care of._

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><p><em>AN: Dun dun dun. What does the Matthew have to take care of? Press the review button and offer up a comment or a guess, and I'll PM you a clue. Unless you don't want a clue. In which case, please just say, "I do not want a clue." Thanks as always for reading and reviewing!_


	38. Chapter 38

_A/N: First, I know I have a few messages to reply to and I think two reviews to reply to as well. I am sorry. But I figured if you wanted me to make a choice between updating and answering correspondence...You would prefer a chapter. Lots of people to thank in this chapter. First,_ **Faeyero**_, for reading these chapters and tirelessly editing them and tirelessly asking me questions that have me pondering things and for constantly pushing me to be better, better, better in the _best_ way. Secondly, I need to thank **URMYSTICK**, (and it's not for what you think, people, so get your minds out of the gutter) for her help in introducing me to Irish cursing. Any mistakes are mine because, well, some of these words were unfamiliar to me. Finally, I need to thank **Cheerupsleepy**, for being the legal eagle of this chapter (and future chapters) and educating me on 1920's UK law. Finally, thanks to everyone who comments. Seriously. This pace is starting to kill me but I see the finish line and we will get there and the comments keep me going! PS This is an intense chapter._

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><p>Chapter Thirty Eight<p>

Matthew woke before his alarm on the day that it would happen. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his hand on his belly. He glanced over at Mary, who was wrapped in her blankets, her face pressed against the edge of his pillow, her toes curled against his calf. For ten years, he would have given anything to have Mary lying beside him, her icy toes pressed to his calf. _I wouldn't want to push in, _she had said the first time they met–and his whole world had shifted.

Now, though, today, he could not look at her for more than a moment because of the business he had to deal with; if he did, the rage, the bitterness, the desire to rip anything into shreds would engulf him and he could not meet Carlisle feeling that way. He could not meet Carlisle after revisiting the memory of Mary as he'd found her in the small library, how she'd kept her eyes closed but could not stop shuddering, deep scratches on her arm–deep enough that a man would have to work to put them there-blood matted in her hair. He could not imagine Carlisle having someone keep tabs on her throughout the years, waiting and hoping for her to return. He could not think about the necklace or its accompanying note, the unwanted present that caused his normally strong wife to wilt, to fall to the ground, once again at the hand of Carlisle. He could not think of Carlisle's eye on Grace, examining her, imagining himself in Matthew's place. He could not think of the man inside his house, flirting with his wife until she said something that made him furious. He could not imagine Mary pressed against the wall, terrified, with Carlisle looming over her. These were all things he could simply _not _think about today, the day he would face the man himself.

He had to be cold. And he could not be cold if he kept remembering his wife burrowed in his arms so recently, murmuring brokenly _every time I say it, it's like it's happening all over again. _He could not think of the letters to her granny in which she'd alluded to it..._I hate to think of it, I really do, but how many women does it happen to? How many men do what Sir Richard did to Lady Mary in her red dress in the small a library? Could you fill a ship with us–the victims? Five? How many throughout history? I think you could fill a country with us..._

Matthew could not think of all the victims of the crime of _rape_, his own wife among them. Especially after poring over the law and becoming even more enraged to see how little recourse there was for what Sir Richard Carlisle had already done and how little could be done, how pitifully little, to protect his family from what he could do in the future. It made Matthew feel helpless–and he did not like to feel helpless. It reminded him of the war, lying on his pallet, trying not to think of the soldier whose face he'd watched explode from two bullets that had seemingly come from nowhere. He had not known the other man, but he had felt the helplessness then, and the fight that everyone claimed they were winning did not feel like a triumph. Everything felt dirty and grimy; everything felt like a loss. Chatty letters of love and affection from Lavinia, Mary's good luck charm...everything felt like water he tried to hold in the palm of his hand. None of it mattered and at night he prayed that if there was a bullet with his name on it, it would at least take him cleanly.

But Mary and the children were _not_ a nameless man in the trenches. Mary was no longer water dripping through his fingers, or a good luck charm he couldn't stop touching with dirty hands. She was _his wife_ whom he made love to. He was not a single man, lying on his pallet, praying for a single bullet to take him cleanly. He slept beside Mary every night, held her in the darkness, heard her breathe. He knew the sounds she made when he was inside of her. He touched the swell of her stomach with his mouth and tasted hope. He rocked Gracie to sleep and knew sweetness. He knew the thrill of hearing his daughter yell "Papa!" when he walked in from a day of work, and the patter of little feet as she ran to him. He knew what it was like to be loved absolutely. And yet...the law, the thing he knew best–the system in which he placed his trust–could not protect these things, these moments, these people who loved him and depended upon him.

So he would have to find another way. These things were too important to be water slipping through his fingers.

He'd asked Tom to join him in the meeting. He hadn't planned it. He hadn't even told Mary of the meeting–not because he was trying to be secretive but because he knew she would worry...and didn't she have enough to worry about? And so he and Tom had been walking and talking, and he had just sort of blurted out his plan. It had been Tom who had once cautioned him to be careful, to think of his family first. He'd known Tom was right then and that his advice applied now too–such strange and correct advice from the Irish "radical"!

Matthew knew that if he did as his fury demanded he do, Carlisle would be dead and he would be questioned–perhaps worse–by the police, and then it was all about him, wasn't it? His feelings? His rage? It was no longer about Mary, the woman on the floor of the small library–or even the woman who had clutched at him in the bathtub, so worried to need and depend on any man, even one who had sworn to love her "for worse." Matthew could not even leave a mark on the man because he knew men like Carlisle, men slimy enough to go straight to the police for a simple punch in the face when he deserved much more than that. It made him sick with rage to know that Carlisle felt himself above the law in the small library, knowing Lady Mary could never tell the authorities, and yet he was a man who would use any means, even if it meant hiding behind the law. He was a man who found ways to push people into corners, where the only way out was through him. Yet, he was the sort of man who would never have made it in the trenches (and wasn't it funny he'd never been conscripted?), who would have found a way to remain at home, regardless of the cost.

"You have to keep me from doing what I want to do to him," Matthew had told Tom after telling him of the meeting. Tom had met his eye for a moment and nodded, as if to say: _I'll do it, of course, but I don't know why you're asking me when I'm not known for keeping a cool head myself. _

They'd shaken hands–the future heir and the old chauffeur, two husbands and two fathers–and vowed that when Carlisle left Matthew's office, he would know that he could not continue to bother the Crawleys. Matthew had intentionally been a bit vague with Tom, using words like "hurt" and "bothered" when it came to Carlisle's behavior because it really was not his story to tell. But even those words were enough to make Tom agree to sit in on the meeting. Matthew supposed that if he'd told Tom that one day Carlisle had gripped Mary's arm too tightly and left a bruise, that would be enough to make Tom to hate the man.

He lay in bed, his hand on his belly, staring at the ceiling, waiting for his alarm to ring.

Most mornings, Matthew would turn to Mary and kiss her awake–or to some stage of wakefulness, at least–and she would wind herself around him and fall back asleep on top of him so that he had to crawl out from under her. Or she would shift over him and kiss him in a sleepy way that promised more and he would have to say, _but darling, I have to go work. _Her voice would be hoarse with early morning desire as she replied _Then you'd better get to it. _

But this morning he could not allow himself to wake her or kiss her or even touch her. What if she asked him about his day? What if she started unbuttoning his pajama top as she did on some mornings (when she'd gone to bed early the night before)? It would be feel like a lie to touch her knowing what he meant to do in a few hours. And he could not steel himself to do what he had to do in a few hours while his wife lay shuddering on top of him, her hair curling around them, her lips on his neck. So instead he watched her, just for a moment drinking the vision of her in, and then he rose and went to Grace's room and stood, just for a second over her crib. She had her bum in the air, as usual. He wondered if Mary had slept like that at Gracie's age, if one day, when she was all knobby knees and awkward elbows, he would walk into their daughter's room to wake her for school and find her curled in blankets, only her dark hair visible.

_This was his child. This was his daughter._ And yet...

And yet, if there had been no small library there would be no Grace. Whenever he thought of it, which was rarely, he could not wrap his mind around it. He could not make it fit. So he did what Mary had always done and set it aside. But it was harder this morning, watching his daughter sleep, knowing in a matter of hours he would meet the man who had violently, viciously, and without Grace's mother's consent fathered her in the small library, destroying Mary in the process.

He was reminded of how it had felt when he was home on leave, preparing to go back, and everyone was hugging him, embracing him to touch him one last time, and he'd had to push them away, even his own mother. _I cannot take the memory of you where I am going. I cannot think of you and do the things I must do. _So when the photograph of Lavinia had fallen to the dirt floor beneath his makeshift desk, he had not picked it up. He had read her letters and the letters of others but only once, never enough for the words to really settle. He had turned Mary's good luck charm in his hands and thought of her kiss–_Such good luck_–on his cheek_. _He had put her away, too. He could not do what he had to do with all of them so near.

So this morning, he again distanced himself. He did not wake his wife to say goodbye. He crept out of his daughter's room. He even avoided speaking to Molesley because he was _preparing to go_ _back _and _he could not do the things he must do with them so near. _

As he rode his bicycle to work, he thought: _I am the future Earl of Grantham. I am a husband. I am a father. I am a civilized man. _

But then he thought of the war, all the unspeakable things he'd done and asked other men to do for queen and country. He could kill. He _had_ killed. It had been a long time since he'd thought of or dreamt of those unspeakable things but he remembered them all the same.

_Am I a civilized man? Am I really?_

He felt a headache brewing because suddenly he could not answer that question and it seemed important, necessary even to answer that question, before he faced the man he would _like_ to kill slowly and painfully. When one went to war, when one wanted to live through the war, one had to believe that his side was the right side. He'd never wanted to kill someone, before the night he had found Mary in the small library. Yes, he had killed, but it was different to hate a man as he did Carlisle, to feel the rage and know he could commit murder, not for queen or country, not in a war, but for himself.

_I am a husband._

_I am a father._

He would cling to those concrete truths instead.

* * *

><p>Richard arrived late on purpose. He did most things on purpose. He saw no need to show Crawley any type of respect when, as far as he was concerned, he would be married to Mary right now if it weren't for Crawley. He owed the man nothing, not even this meeting. But his curiosity (he was a newspaperman, after all) was strong enough that he wanted to know what the other man would say to him. He wanted to know what Mary had told Crawley. And if he was truly honest with himself (which was difficult, if not impossible), Crawley was connected to Mary. Anything connected to Mary was of interest to him. At worst, he was still lovesick, trying to grasp at the hem of Lady Mary's gown as she continually walked away from him. So he dressed carefully for the event, as if Mary would be there, though he knew she would not be. He kept rubbing his fingers together, feeling for invisible ink stains. A man now ironed <em>his<em> papers when he stayed at Haxby, and he comforted himself that Crawley was no more a gentleman than Richard was himself. _Except for those damned bloodlines_, he thought, remembering Violet and Isobel.

His own marriage had proven to be a disappointment. Now, especially since he'd seen Mary with her hair down and her feet bare, he realized that he'd tried to fill the place of Lady Mary with Marianne–and Marianne was a poor substitute. A very poor one, indeed. How hard he'd had work to court her, to convince her middle class family that he wanted to make a proper wife out of their Marianne. They looked at Richard the way Richard had looked at the residents of Downton Abbey. He could practically hear their thoughts when they looked at him, Sir Richard Carlisle, the newspaper magnate: _You can bring us up in the world. _He had tried to convince himself that he loved her, that he could love her, but he did not.

Sir Richard Carlisle barged into Crawley's office. He didn't care to be announced. _You know who I am, _he thought with an imperious smile. He was surprised to see the earl's old chauffeur there. "You thought we needed a chaperone, Crawley?" he asked, grinning slyly and rocking back on his heels. To the other man, he turned and asked, "Weren't you the chauffeur?"

Branson leaned back against the inside of the closed door, hands in his pockets, and crossed his feet at the ankles. He put his hands in his pockets and looked Richard up and down. "Weren't you almost Mr. Lady Mary Crawley?"

Richard's grin vanished. He'd been pleased to see Branson, someone obviously inferior to himself. But he continued to rub his fingers together, an old habit, remembering the ink stains that had kept him from touching Mary when he asked her to marry him, from kissing her as he would have like to, after his proposal. There was nothing to rub away now, of course.

Crawley had not risen to greet him. Clearly, there would be no politeness here. Without asking, Richard took a seat across the desk from him, taking care to preserve the pleat of his pants. "So, why am I here, Crawley?" His voice boomed; it was how he spoke in the boardroom, when he was informed of a problem: _So, what are we going to do about it? _That was how he approached most things and usually his plans worked out reasonably well. When he'd seen Lady Mary Crawley at the party where they'd met, and garnered an introduction, he'd been flummoxed by her wit; he was afraid his smile looked like a grimace because he had been so out of practice. But then, once the party was over, he'd thought: _So, what are we going to do about her? _

Crawley's eyes were unreadable, Richard realized, and hadn't they always been? Except of course when Mary had been in the room as well. Then, Richard had been able to read the other man's very heart, as if it had been cut open for his inspection. It had been pathetic, really, to watch Crawley watch _his fiancée_, to watch Lavinia watch Crawley, and to watch Mary pretend not to notice any of it, as if she it were all beneath her notice.

_Would I ever admit to loving a man who preferred someone else over me?_

It was conversations like that with Mary, or dinners where she'd glance at Crawley over her wine glass, her movements small and delicate, her remarks witty, that made Richard start to hate her so it was all a mess inside of him–his lust for her, his desire to hurt her, own her and his _love, moon, and June_ for her. It had never been simple with Mary. But he was sure that he had loved her. Of that he could be sure.

"We need to come to an understanding, Carlisle." Crawley's voice was cold. It was as devoid of emotion as a voice could be. He folded his hands in front of him on his desk. This was not the man Richard had caught watching Mary. This man's heart was not open for inspection. This man might not even have a heart to inspect.

Of course, Carlisle could not know Matthew's refrain: _I am a husband. I am a father. _

Richard grinned again. _So, what are _you _going to do about it, Crawley? You can't touch me and neither can the Irishman at the door. So, really, what are _you _going to do about it? _In his peripheral vision, he could see Branson moving his shoulders–surprisingly broad for a servant who sat behind the wheel of a car all day, he thought–against the door in an agitated way, as if his suit did not fit correctly...or perhaps as if he would like to knock Richard's teeth out. Richard almost wanted him to. Then, he'd go right to the police and have it all taken care of. It seemed as if all the emotion Richard had expected from Crawley was coming from this lesser man and this confused and unnerved him. He did not know which man to watch. "An understanding over what?"

"Over you coming near my family," Matthew stated levelly. "About you speaking to or touching my wife."

"Ah, yes–Mary." Richard smiled again, but this time there was meanness and bitterness there. "It's interesting how you call her your wife. You made damn sure of that, didn't you?"

"I'm not going to be goaded into an argument with you, Carlisle," Crawley stated, his mouth firm. "You have no business with me or my family or my wife. Yet, you've made it your business to send vaguely threatening notes and inappropriate gifts. You've even visited our home unannounced."

"What are you worried about, Crawley?" Carlisle folded his arms in front of him, sure that despite Crawley's words to the contrary, he _could _be goaded into an argument. "Are you worried that _your wife_," he smirked at the word, "brought me upstairs to your marital bed?"

Crawley only narrowed his eyes, the only evidence that Richard had unnerved him. It was the chauffeur who spoke, low and menacingly. "You'd best be careful, Carlisle."

Richard laughed. "Or what?" he retorted. To Crawley, he shrugged his shoulders. "It's funny that your muscle over there mentions the word _careful._"

"Is it?" Crawley replied. Of course, the man would have enough pride not to ask why.

"When _your wife_, who was then _my fiancée, _came to me, with those big brown eyes, asking me to hush up the story of her Turkish lover dying in her bed, I called her careful. I called her cold." Richard smiled fondly, as if the memory warmed him, so that his next words would have an even bigger impact. "It wasn't long after that when we became lovers." His grin flicked up at the edges. "Then she wasn't cold or careful anymore."

Crawley leaned back in his chair. "Do you honestly believe the shit that comes out of your mouth? Or is it only for my benefit? Either way, I won't be deterred. There will be no more notes or gifts or visits."

Richard paused. He had to readjust. _So, what are are we going to do about this? _"The note was to congratulate her on her recent wedding. I see nothing wrong with _that. _And as for the visit, I was only repaying the one your cousin and mother paid me."

The chauffeur snorted. "I bet Violet Crawley, _or I suppose you know her as the Dowager Countess,_ demolished you. Oh, if only I could have been there to see it."

Richard ignored him. "You see, your wife has returned my favor of not publishing the story about the Turk, by telling people that I..." He slapped his own thigh, as if highly amused. "Wait for it, Crawley, she's telling people that I-"

"You should heed Tom's advice and be careful, Carlisle," Crawley interrupted, still in that even tone of his, but his jaw was hard and his body braced and Richard knew that he had him. It was quite funny when he considered that the lie over an affair with Mary caused no reaction but that the truth, or her truth, could make the man crumble.

"Well, hell, maybe _Tom_ here would be interested, too," Richard threatened because in interrupting him Crawley had revealed his hand of cards. This _Tom _did not know about Mary. And Crawley did not want him to.

"I'm not interested in anything you have to say," Tom replied patiently. "It's as plain as day to me that you are the perfect example of what good _common _English inbreeding will do to a person as you are a complete bloody idiot."

"No, I actually think you would be interested in this," Richard continued. He wanted to snarl. He wanted to pace. But he wouldn't fold as easily as that. He pretended to smother a laugh over his next comment, as if he were about to relay a funny little joke he knew. "I hear _Mary _is telling people I raped her."

This Tom character took a step towards him. He looked at Crawley for confirmation, but Crawley was staring at Richard. "Excuse me?" Tom asked.

Richard took his time turning towards the man. He wasn't worth the effort, but something about the man's aggression called to some visceral part of Richard; Branson's emotions were what he'd expected of Crawley and he found he couldn't help antagonizing him. "Should I repeat myself? I'm assuming, despite your nationality, that you do know English?...Mary is telling people I raped her."

Branson pushed off from the door and kicked the chair Richard sat on so swiftly that Richard did not remember falling, or hitting his head, or sprawling out on the floor, or anything until he looked up and saw the chauffeur standing over him, murder in his eyes and his voice. "It's _Lady_ Mary, you son of a bitch. And if you use that word again, _I'll kill you_."

Crawley came out from around his desk and put his hand on the animal's shoulder. "You're a husband and a father, Tom," he said reasonably, and Richard hated him all the more for stopping Branson. He always had to be the noble one, the honorable one. Wasn't that one of the reasons Mary loved him? And he hated that fact because Richard could be many things. He could be rich. He could be powerful. But he could only pretend to be honorable, and even then, not very well.

Then Crawley was moving, quicker than Richard could imagine anyone moving, leaning over and grabbing Richard by the throat. His grip was not strong enough to bruise, but the threat was clear. "If you touch her, if you speak to her, if you speak _of _her–or my family, you won't want to deal with the consequences, Carlisle."

Richard smiled smugly, though it took quite a bit of effort while he was at Crawley's mercy. "What consequences? There's nothing for the law to do and if you touch me, I'll go straight to the police."

"You are so predictable," Crawley said with disgust. "Don't you know there are plenty of ways to hurt a man–to kill a man–without leaving a mark? But then," he added with a cold smile, "you didn't serve in the military, did you, Carlisle?" And then, again, with more quickness than Richard expected, Crawley's hand was squeezing the very part of a man that hurt the most, until tears ran down Richard's face, until he would have done _anything_ for the pain to stop. When he tried to squirm away, Branson stepped on his hand, rocking forward from his heel toward the ball of his foot to increase the pressure and additional threat. It didn't take much pressure at all for Richard to stop moving.

"Now you're going to make me a promise, Carlisle. And I'm going to continue to squeeze until you make that promise. You will leave every single part of my family completely alone–and that includes every part of Mary's as well," he added as Branson nodded. "You don't _think _of us. You especially don't _think _of my wife. You especially don't come _near _my daughter. _We do not exist for you._ Do you understand?"

Richard nodded weakly. His face felt as if it were burning off. He wanted to curl up. He would have pissed himself from the pain if the pain would have been coming from any other body part but for the one that Crawley squeezed.

"Say it," Crawley said in that same level voice. He could have been sitting at his desk, his hands folded in front of him, for the evenness of his voice.

Richard's pain was so intense he could not think, could not curse, could not hate. He could only hurt. "I–" his voice was hoarse and yet high pitched. He wanted to retch. "I promise."

"Say it."

"I promise to leave you all alone," Richard said in a rush of breath. "Now, please. Stop..." He made a sound that was no longer human.

"Oh, so you do have manners," Crawley continued squeezing harder. "I didn't know that you knew words like _please _and _stop._" He leaned closer to Richard's face, whispered in his ear. "My wife asked you to _stop _and you didn't listen. What makes you think that I would listen to you?" He paused, pulled back so he could meet Richard's pitifully tear filled eyes.

"I should cut it off," Crawley stated in a matter of fact way, finally letting go and Richard curled up into a ball, like a child, like a little boy, dry heaving as the other two men closed the door and left the room.

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><p>Tom and Matthew walked in silence. Neither would be able to tell the other whether, upon exiting Matthew's office, they turned right or left. They just walked.<p>

_I am a husband._

_I am a father._

Matthew's mantra continued because he knew that although he had terrified Carlisle, it was not enough when he remembered Mary lying on the floor of the small library, her luminous skin lighting a room left in shadows by the table and lamp turned over in the struggle. He'd remembered the scene so often before he'd seen her again. Then, in New York, and ever since, he'd filed it away, pushed it aside–just as she had pushed it aside (though it was never erased)–because it had to be. She would have been able to see the memory in his eyes, feel it in his touch. His version mattered so little when compared to hers–the true, actual experience–but even the echo of his memory of that night would have been painful for her.

But today he could not forget those scratches on her arms–scratches so deep they might have been made by talons. He'd seen Carlisle's hands today, the nails short and carefully manicured. How hard had he worked to put those scratches–no, grooves, really–into her arms? and for no other reason than to hurt her? _For no other reason._

Tom finally spoke. "You can't keep going over it in your head. There wasn't anything more you could do, really." His words were diffident but his voice was hard, as if he was still going over it in _his _head, as if he were imagining a scene he had never witnessed in the small library.

"Was it?" Matthew asked, his hands fisting in his pockets. "It felt like a pitifully small thing."

"He's...what he did..." Tom trailed off helplessly, knowing his helplessness was nothing compared to what Matthew must be feeling.

"You can't ever tell Mary that you know or anyone else, not even Sybil. I don't know if Mary has confided in her," Matthew insisted. "It's very important, Tom."

"Of course," Tom replied, his eyes on his shoes as they walked. "I would never...I was only going to say that you couldn't have done more. He's complete a complete English gobshite _prick_," he said, his voice rising. "He would have gone to the police, just as he threatened. And I know, not as well as you, but I know English law. It doesn't exactly protect victims."

"I know." Matthew paused, hardening his jaw. "I looked and looked. Did you know it's easier to prove that someone threatened to kill another person, that the consequences are more severe for that, than it is to prove someone was raped? The victim has to prove that she did _everything_ _possible_ to fight. And even then...I can do nothing about what he did to her years ago. And it kills me, Tom." He scuffed his shoe on the road. He could not meet Tom's eyes. The admission made his throat feel raw.

"But he's been bothering her recently as well?" Tom asked.

"Of course he has." Matthew rubbed at his eyes, suddenly exhausted. "He sent her a note, alluding to what he'd done. He's been to the house. He's trying to ingratiate himself with Robert. I want to kill him. Do you know how badly I would like to kill him?" Matthew said with desperation, as they continued to walk.

"I can only imagine, Matthew," Tom replied slowly. "And I would help you to bury the body. But...you have responsibilities. And I know this is so...bloody trite when compared to...what he's done but she needs you–_they_ need you–more than you need revenge."

_I am a husband._

_I am a father. _

"I want to protect them," Matthew said passionately. "And there is so very little I can do."

"Well, you did what you could," Tom encouraged. "Truly, if you'd left a mark on him..."

"I know."

But it was not enough. It would never be. Even if the man fell over dead, it would not be enough. Because his wife lived on with the memory and would forever. How do you make a dead man pay for a memory?

_I am a husband._

_I am a father._

* * *

><p>He cycled home for lunch, though it was not in his normal routine to do so. Halfway there, he saw Mary walking towards him, pushing the pram with Gracie dozing inside. Baby barely fit into the pram along with her now and he could only imagine his daughter insisting that Baby <em>must <em>come as well to Mary, and Mary's reaction. Suddenly, he was smiling as he got off his bicycle to meet them, to kiss his wife, longer and more deeply than he normally would in public. He tilted her head back and her eyes fluttered closed.

"Hello," she whispered against his mouth as he ended the kiss. "We didn't expect to see you."

"I was going to stop home for lunch." He smiled at her, but his wife noted his eyes looked weary. But Matthew was wondering as he drew her to him with his hand on her hip how long it would take them to get home and put Gracie in her crib so that he could make love to Mary, so he could hold her unmarred arm up over her head, as she throatily moaned his name into his ear. "What are you up to?"

Mary looked a bit guilty. "Don't be angry," she cautioned.

He didn't feel angry. He did, however, feel an urgent need to be inside her. "All right."

"I was going to the bakery," she said so quickly it was difficult to separate the words, "only because when I was last there, there was this chocolate cake. I asked Mrs. Byrd to make one and she said she would need to get some ingredients for _next week._" She took her hands off of the pram and grabbed onto his jacket in a joking way, inadvertently pulling their bodies closer. "And I _need _that chocolate cake." Upon their bodies touching, even a little, her eyes flew to his. "Matthew," she murmured, feeling his arousal. She looked around, as if other people might be able to tell.

He whispered the words hoarsely, urgently, near her temple. "_And I need you."_ She'd never heard that tone from him before, the desperation that if he didn't have her...she didn't know what.

"But your work..." she trailed off lamely. His tone had ignited something within her and she found that, standing there on a public street, fully clothed, she was _wanting _him more insistently than usual and he was _wanting _her perhaps more than he ever had before.

"I'll go back, tell them I'm taking the rest of the day. You get your chocolate cake. Make sure that Gracie stays asleep. And I'll meet you back here," he said through his teeth, his words quick. It was a physical pain now, his need. "And then..."

She swallowed hard at the look in his eyes and nodded. "And then."

She bought her chocolate cake and she made eye contact with Gretchen. Mary could have sent someone for the cake, she knew. But there was something inside of Mary that very badly wanted to let Gretchen know that it was all right, that she did not need to feel shame whenever the two women met. If Mary had been willing to analyze herself, she would have realized that because she had lived with her own shame, how monstrous it was, she could not bear to be the cause of someone else's shame, especially another woman's. So she met Gretchen's eye and she smiled and thanked her and she touched her hand as she paid for the cake. "Thank you," she called out casually as she left. She hoped in some small way, the exchange would accomplish what words simply could not do in this case.

But when Mary met Matthew again, she could feel the tension, the need, in every touch–the hand at her elbow as she pushed the pram, grazing her waist when they arrived home. He gathered Gracie up and put her gently in the crib and then took Mary by the hand, dragging her towards the bedroom. It seemed pointless to mention the servants or his mother noticing that they were in their bedroom in the middle of the day.

He shut the door and pushed her up against it, taking her hands in his and lifting them above her head. He kissed her, opening his mouth, all tongue and lips and teeth, no soft kisses to begin this time, and she matched him, tilting her head, pressing her lower body against his. She'd never seen him like this or felt this from him. She imagined that this would have been the way they would have made love if they'd been together when he came home on leave during the war because it felt as if he needed her body to help him erase something; it felt like he needed her to _let him._ Because she loved him, because she wanted him just as much, she met his silent desperation, his demanding kisses, beat for beat, and when his hands tightened on hers, above her head, she tightened her grip as well. She could tell he was struggling to be gentle and she wanted to tell him, _don't be gentle; I won't break. _But even if she had had the courage to do so, he was asking so much of her mouth already that there was no room for those words.

Then he turned her and placed her palms against the door. He started with the buttons on her back of her skirt, then pulled her blouse out from the waist band and ran his hand up underneath, pressing into her flesh in a way that made her arch her back and purr like a cat. He pulled the blouse over her head and she helped him but then returned her palms to the door, even as he pressed open mouthed kisses to her shoulder and her neck and she pushed back restlessly against him. He was pulling her skirt up in his hands, higher and higher, until he could flick at her garters and rid her of all her under things. The whole time he was worshipping her back with his lips, rubbing himself against her. She wondered if it would be now, standing up with her back to him, if that was even possible.

"Matthew," she moaned, and he turned her again, so quickly that her loosened skirt fell to the floor and she put her hands to use, undoing his belt, yanking it off, then unbuttoning his pants with swift and confident fingers. Her speed and desperation spoke to something of what _she _wanted from _him_ and suddenly he was dragging her to bed. He laid her down as he rid himself of the rest of his clothes, leaving them on the floor where they fell. He did not care about them. She did not care that the sunlight was coming in from the opened curtains. And when he lay on top of her, most of his weight on his forearms, his head immediately went to her breasts, where he stayed for a long time, nipping and sucking, before one of his hands slid between her legs. He levered himself up to her neck while her hands clawed at the headboard.

"Do you want me?" he asked, his whisper harsh with desire. Her eyes were closed and her head thrown back and she was beginning to pulse, to break, when his hand stopped moving. "_Do you want me_?"

She opened her eyes, met his demanding ones. "Of course. You know I do," she repeated, barely able to get the words out with the wanting, the aching in her belly. "I always do."

"Even like this?" he asked before biting her lip, hard. He was breathing so heavily. His muscles seemed more tense, harder than usual.

"Any way," she murmured as they rolled and her hands went into his hair. "I want you every way."

He rolled her again onto her back. He lifted her thighs and knelt in front of her, so her lower body wasn't even touching the bed. His eyes were questioning. She knew exactly what he wanted to know. Would it be all right, like this, with the baby? In essence, really: _darling, is it all right if I pound myself into you?_

She nodded, biting her lip. She could touch no part of him; he was too far away. He entered her gently and she moaned loudly because she'd been so close already, before, that even this tender contact was enough to send her over the edge. And then, without warning, he really was pounding himself into her. It was not elegant. It was not lovely. It was visceral and guttural. But it was also _right_ and she grabbed the headboard to anchor herself to something because she'd already finished once, early on since he'd primed her so completely, and she could tell that he was nowhere near finished, even as he demanded, "_Again_," in that voice she'd never heard before. And, indeed, when he shattered and fell forward, catching himself with his hands, she arched and cried out his name again, through clenched teeth, crashing, perhaps more intensely than she ever had before.

It took him a moment of heavy breathing, his face just over her belly, before he leaned forward to kiss her there and dislodged himself from her, prompting a quiet moan from her, so he could lie beside her and wrap his arms around her and kiss her cheeks and her nose and her eyes and of course her mouth. He usually needed a bit more recovery time before he could be depended on for a cuddle and a kiss but this time he seemed intent upon it, worried even.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice concerned, his brow furrowed. "Did I hurt you? Were you uncomfortable?"

She could barely speak. Her body felt completely loose, her mind blank. "I'm completely comfortable. I'm fantastic," she managed to whisper.

He kissed both of her hands, ran his hands soothingly up and down her arms, again and again. "I was a little more rough than normal."

"Maybe more than usual," she replied, sighing with pleasure, still. "But not _rough_."

"I wanted you so very badly," he admitted, his lips against his throat. "If Gracie sleeps long enough, I could be prevailed upon to have you again. This time I promise to be more gentle."

She rolled on top of him. "I like that you wanted me so very badly. I love it actually. And I like that it's different every time between us. Gentle or demanding or..."

"In the tub or against the wall," he smiled while she played with hair, smiling back at him.

"I love you," she told him seriously. "I trust you. Maybe it should be harder for me to trust you in this area but it isn't. It isn't at all. _Not with you_."

He wrapped his arms around her and rolled her back over, his head resting on her breasts, her body free of the full weight of him. She ran her hands through his hair and it was pure wifely intuition that her her asking, "Did...did something happen today?"

He did not want to tell her.

_I am a husband._

_I am a father._

"I met with Carlisle today," he admitted, his lips against her breast. "We reached...an understanding of sorts."

She pulled him up by his hair so she could glare at him. "Excuse me?"

"I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily, but I'm telling you now, so it's not a secret." He felt as if he was trying to find a loophole in the laws of marriage, though no one would ever be able to convince him he'd done the wrong thing.

She moved away from him, drawing the throw around herself to cover her nakedness in the bright light. "How could you _not _tell me?" she whispered.

"I'm telling you _now_," he reminded her. She cast him a withering look, so he continued. "And because I asked you last week if you trusted me to handle this and you said yes," he said quietly. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "So I handled it. I didn't want you to worry. And now you don't have to worry at all because it's already taken care of."

"I feel like you should have told me," she murmured. She wasn't angry but now everything made sense, the way he had made love to her as if he'd come back from war–because, in a way, he had.

He shrugged, a movement she couldn't see. "And maybe if you weren't pregnant and there weren't a million other problems going on, I would have, but..."

"Did he–was he..."

"It doesn't matter," Matthew continued in that civilized tone. It appeared he'd released any caveman-like tendencies a few minutes earlier. "It's over. It's handled."

She turned towards him. "So you won't share any details?"

"No," he replied with great gentleness, taking his face in her hands and kissing her mouth softly.

"Matthew, I–" She grabbed his wrists and shuddered. "You're telling me there is nothing to worry about?"

"I am," he said sincerely.

"And you won't tell me any more than that?"

"No," he said definitely.

She leaned forward, pressing her face into his neck. His arms came around her. "Because you love me, because you want to protect me."

"Yes."

She suddenly realized that, due to so many factors, he'd never been given the privilege before–not really. He was her husband. He was the father of her children. And so, though she had to choose to do so, she let it go, or tried to. She allowed herself to be protected. She trusted him to do that, and she loved him enough to let him. "All right." She clutched him, betraying her emotions, but her words were calm. "All right."

* * *

><p>They had a lovely dinner, just the three of them and Isobel. Mary even shared <em>some <em>of her cake, but only because she'd seen some lovely looking scones at the bakery as well that she planned on going back for. When Matthew gawked at her words, she wasn't sure if it was because she would be revisiting Gretchen or because she seemed so keen to eat _so _much. So she said lightly, during her third piece of cake, "Dr. George did say I had to gain weight, darling." They both knew that if they were alone, she would have reminded him of his now infamous words: _d'you think we've made a baby yet?_

Gracie loved the cake so much she shared none of it with Baby.

Matthew rocked Gracie to sleep that night. He asked if he could and of course Mary agreed. Gracie babbled a bit more than normal and he couldn't find it within his heart to insist she sleep so he just went on rocking her, in the old rocking chair, until her eyes began to close and she curled into him. "I love you ever so much, Gracie, darling," he whispered and she nodded half asleep as if she knew that he did.

Mary was reading when he entered the bedroom, free of her blankets, and he knew that she was still worried about him, pretending not to watch as he changed into his pajamas. So when he lay beside her, he took her in his arms and kissed her–just kisses, drugging kisses that numbed her mind until she was able to simply sigh, find the place in the curve of his neck, beneath his jaw, and fall asleep. His kissing sedative had worked. She was no longer worried about him.

He was awake much longer, and when he finally did fall asleep, he was not thinking _I am a husband. I am a father. _

Instead he was trying to answer what should have been a simple question: _Am I civilized man?_

He woke to Mary's pale face over him, her eyes dark and worried, her cold hands on his cheeks. "Matthew," she said, as calmly as she could manage, though she'd been panicking a moment ago, "it was just a nightmare, darling."

He could hear Gracie crying. He tried to push away the images Mary had interrupted. He could hear Gracie crying for Papa. "Gracie?" he asked, his voice hoarse as if he'd been screaming. Had he been? Oh God, _had he been?_ He hadn't had one of these in months, nearly a year.

"She's with your mother," Mary replied. Her hands wanted to shake but she knew she could not allow them to. When she'd awakened to his screaming and thrashing, and then heard Gracie wake as well, she'd known that Isobel would go to Gracie; she'd heard Isobel's footsteps and murmured soothing and Mary had also known that her place was here, with Matthew. At this moment, he needed her more than her daughter did–and what a revelation it was to know that her greatest fear, having to make a choice, could be made depending on the circumstances. "She'll be fine. She won't even remember this in the morning," she soothed.

He pushed his wife's hands away as gently as he could. His pajamas were soaked in sweat. "You should go to Gracie," he insisted.

Mary bit her lip. She went to the bathroom instead and filled a cup they kept there with water and brought it back to him. "Here," she said evenly. She knew she did not like to be coddled after a nightmare; very obviously, he did not want to be either. He didn't want her there at all. So she sat on her side of the bed. She didn't look at him but she listened to his breath settle.

"You should go to to Gracie," he repeated.

"You've already said that," she reminded him, trying not to snap at him. She felt as if there was a rubber band around the two of them, that there was no way for either of them to move without pulling the other, hurting the other. "Your mother is with her. I'm not worried about Gracie. I _am_ worried about you."

"Well, _don't._" The rubber band snapped and she felt the sting. He stood, walked into the bathroom, and slammed the door behind him.

She closed her eyes. She wasn't angry; she could not find it within herself to be angry when he had dealt with much worse from her. But she did rise and go to her daughter, who reached for her immediately, though Mary saw on her face that she thought Mama would only be one step closer to Papa. She swayed and she shushed and she tried to soothe. Gracie's shrieks turned to whimpers against Mary's neck. She kept whimpering, "Papa. Papa."

Isobel sat in the rocking chair. "He used to have them all the time. Not when he first came back, but after his legs started to work again and they didn't pain him so much. It was as if all the pain from the war suddenly burst through. But it has been a long time." She met Mary's eyes. "Did something trigger this?"

"You would have to ask Matthew," Mary replied gently, still swaying. She knew what loyalty meant to her; she would never want her triggers spoken aloud outside of the bedroom she shared with her husband. The baby's face was hot against her neck and her nightgown was wet from Grace's tears. "Though I don't recommend asking him _now._"

Isobel gave her a wry smile. "No. I'm sure you know how to handle him best."

"No, I didn't mean to say I know better than you," Mary began. "It's just–I have nightmares like that too, sometimes. You know. You've seen. He'll just snap at you if you go to him now. I didn't mean to offend you."

"You didn't," Isobel said firmly, sadness in her eyes for both of them–her son and the woman she now considered her daughter. "And I understood your meaning perfectly." She paused. "I'll leave you. When he...when he comes to see Grace, as we both know he will, he won't want to see me."

"Thank you," Mary murmured to Isobel, tears filling her eyes. Her gratitude spanned the time from the letter she'd sent them to New York until this very moment. Cora had not been wrong to be jealous not only of her granddaughter's relationship with Isobel–and her daughter's, as well. "Thank you for _everything_."

When Matthew did come for Gracie, he'd changed his pajamas and stuck his head under a faucet of cold water and then waited for his hands to stop shaking. He tried to forget the dream–the memory really–the way the German had been running at him, the way he had pulled his own gun and pulled the trigger, just as something exploded nearby and he was knocked to his knees. He realized he'd shot the man in the stomach. He knew the man would die, and die badly. But he'd been called back by Mason–by _William_–and he'd gone, refusing to grant mercy to the German who probably had a girl back home and a mother who prayed for him. Maybe he even had a good luck charm from a girl he wasn't supposed to love and did anyway.

Gracie lifted her head from Mary's shoulder and reached for him. "Papa," she squeaked rather pitifully. It had been his scream that woke her. She knew his voice and she'd been so worried that something was wrong with her papa.

The man who shot the German in the belly did not deserve this perfectly innocent child. He did not deserve to hold her, or soothe her, or teach her to ride a bicycle someday. He was uncivilized, a monster, in a uniform.

He reached for Grace, the baby he did not deserve, and he expected Mary to pull away, to jerk, to keep their girl from him. Didn't she see that he was dangerous? But the handoff was simple: he took Gracie and Mary let her go. He walked with Gracie back to their bedroom and expected that Mary would follow. He would try to comfort Grace but he would not allow Mary to comfort him.

When Gracie finally calmed, slept curled on his chest, he finally spoke to Mary. "I don't want to talk about it."

She touched his shoulder briefly. "I never asked you to talk about it." He allowed her to take one of his hands. "You've seen plenty of my nightmares, my ghosts, recently. Did you really expect me to be afraid of yours?"

He didn't have any words. He was undone. He pressed his face into the baby's hair. Here was Grace and also grace.

"It makes me feel a little better, actually," she said with a small, ironic smile as she cuddled closer to the two of them. "I'm not the only one with baggage, you know."

He laughed–which was the point, after all. "I'm glad I could help." He remembered that she knew what it felt like, to wake from a nightmare only to find you were living a different life than the one in your dream. She would know better than to ask. She trusted him to hold their daughter and to hold her. She trusted him to protect them both and when he said she did not need to know the details of the meeting with Carlisle, she believed him.

_I am a husband._

_I am a father._

* * *

><p><em>AN: I could ask you questions, but mostly I want to know what you thought. Thank you._


	39. Chapter 39

_A/N: Hello! So sorry that this was delayed a day but alas, as most of you know, the website was not working. Thank you all for the comments. I loved hearing from the newbies and the oldies and it really motivated me as we wind toward the finish (don't worry, there is still plenty left) and most intense parts of the story. I also want to let you know that due to the Easter holiday, the next chapter may be posted on Saturday or even possibly Monday. Since I am currently writing it, I cannot be sure. Thank you to **Faeyero**, for her help in this chapter. And also to Madonna, for her song "Holiday." Just kidding. That was definitely not the soundtrack to this chapter...you'll catch my drift as you read. I know I have a few more messages and comments to respond to but I really wanted to get this up for you guys because you guys are the best :)_

* * *

><p>Chapter Thirty Nine<p>

After several hours of travel, Mary walked into the bedroom where they would be staying, undid her stockings, pulled her blouse from her unbuttoned skirt, and lay down on the bed. She knew Matthew was dealing with the baggage and getting the lay of the land, and maybe she should have been there, standing just beyond his shoulder, looking very wifely. But she was tired from the trip. The sea air opened up something inside her, some memory long forgotten that she could not quite grasp, and she certainly did not have the energy to try and reach for it. So she untucked her blouse and lay on the bed. Smoothing her hand over her ever growing belly, she dreamt instead of the baby she carried and the one she'd left hours ago now who had seemed not to care that Mama or Papa were leaving. Her nerves had been stretched as thin as the most delicate paper at the thought of leaving Grace overnight for several days, when she'd never even left her for a single night before. She'd known Matthew could feel it, the tension, the pull and push, of wanting to go and wanting to stay, and was glad that she did not have to explain herself to him. It was lovely, really, to be known so well by someone. Except when it wasn't.

Saying goodbye to Gracie had been difficult for bothof them. It was particularly poignant because Gracie did not seem to care _at all_. They'd brought her into their bed the night before, explaining that Mama and Papa were going away for a few days and that she would be spending a lot of time with Gran Isobel, Granny Violet, Aunt Sybil, Uncle Tom, and, of course, Robbie. They spoke seriously, holding her across both of their laps, ready to comfort and wipe away the expected tears. But Gracie had turned to look at them, giggling "Iz. Vi. Syb. Tom. Rob."

"She doesn't understand," Mary had insisted to Matthew, and then spoke slowly to Gracie: "Yes, all of your favorite people. But _no Mama_.And_ no Papa._"

Grace stood on their bed and began to jump, a bit unsteadily, singing out the names: "Iz, Vi, Syb, Tom, _Rob_!" No matter how many times Mary emphasized _who would be missing, _Gracie could not be prevailed upon to care _at all. _

Mary was contrary enough to want both reactions from her daughter: for her to care very much, to cry and throw a tantrum–but also to this well-adjusted girl, so well loved by both her parents, who knew they would always come back to her, that their leaving would always a temporary thing. The actual morning of their departure had been brutal on Mary. Gracie had seemed perfectly content to wave _bye bye _to Mama and Papa from Isobel's arms after many kisses and hugs. Just as the car had begun to move forward, Mary had called out: "Wait!" to the driver. She had gotten out of the car with Matthew following her, and hurried back to their daughter. "Gracie," she had said, her voice quivering with unshed tears, "aren't you _sad_ to say goodbye to Mama and Papa?"

"Bye bye!" Gracie had chirped, waving at them from Isobel's arms, and Matthew had put his arm around Mary and led her back to the car. Once they were off, Mary had wept. "Ignore me," she had told him, waving his arms away. "I just expected her to at least care a little. Instead, it's as if she's _excited_ to see us off." He had expected the same–and it _had_ stung to see how easy Gracie took the farewell.

"Yes, but if she would have been upset, we would have been devastated," he'd reminded her. "If she had cried, I don't know if _I _ would have been able to leave." She'd taken his hand. "I suppose it means she's well adjusted."

Now, she was in that place halfway between sleep and wakefulness, where she was asleep and yet knew exactly where she was. She could feel the breeze through the open windows and the skin of her own belly beneath her hand but her eyes were closed, her breathing even, in that halfway place where dreams are just memories and she remembered a trip to the seashore. She had been very little; it wasn't so much a memory but a number of sensations and pictures that the salt in the air, the waves she could hear, had pulled out of her.

She remembered Edith in a little bonnet, too small to walk, so Sybil was not born yet. She could feel how her little legs struggled in the sand. Walking had been hard work but she had been so excited to see the sea! To see the sea! She remembered her mother's laugh, like coins tinkling together in a gentleman's pocket. The wind picked up and the sand rose and stung her face. She felt the sun on her arms. Then, somehow–and here things became fuzzy, dreamlike even in the dream itself–she was in the water all alone. Had she run into the waves? Perhaps so, because she could hear her mother calling, then shrieking. When her father finally reached her, he was breathing heavily as if he had been running, and Papa did not run. She remembered the feeling of wet clothes, how heavy they were!–both her own and her father's–when he just sat down on the shore with her in his arms, how his cheek had pressed against her hair. She didn't cry until later, when she realized what she'd done, with his cheek pressed so tightly to her wet hair. The sea was too big. The waves were too rough. She was too little. She had not known how to swim.

But her father had run after her, waded into the sea in his clothes and shoes, and brought her back to shore...and why had she not cried until she was safe?

Then she really was deeply asleep and her question went unanswered.

When Matthew walked into the room, he had to smile. The only time he'd ever seen Mary asleep on top of the covers had been in New York, when he'd been told to go right up by Mrs. Larsen, when he'd climbed into a bed he had no right to and held a baby who did not belong to him, but somehow did anyway. As he had that day, he removed his shoes and socks and jacket and lay beside her. He watched her sleep for a moment; her posture was so different from the way she normally slept, burrowed in mountains of covers: now, she lay with one arm behind her head, the other beneath her blouse cupping their child. He wondered if it was the sea air, the salt you could taste on your tongue, the sheer curtains blowing in and out through the windows, that had so freed her. Then he was asleep too.

She woke an hour later, stretching like a cat warming itself in the sun and waking Matthew (of course) in the process. "I'm sorry for falling asleep," she whispered. "Hearing your wife's snores is hardly a good beginning to a romantic trip."

"Firstly, you don't snore..." he began, moving closer to her, taking her in his arms.

She interrupted him. "Oh, but I will by the end of these nine months, when I am so big and can only sleep on my back."

He nuzzled her neck and went on as if she had not spoken. "Secondly, this was not advertised as a romantic trip but a relaxing one, remember? And what can be more relaxing than a nap?" His hand found its way under her blouse and rubbed her belly. "Why don't we both change into something more comfortable?" he asked. She raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't mean for _that. _I only want you to be relaxed."

"Well," she smiled, wanting to giggle really, and barely controlled the impulse. "You said you would take care of the night things," her next words were sarcastic, "_so I would have less to worry about when it came to packing_–so let's see what you brought for _me _to _relax_ in."

He rose from the bed and found her bag, and she sat up, leaning on her elbows, as he pulled out a series of items: the very obvious white robe (she laughed, of course–and besides the robe _was_ spectacularly comfortable), the long black silk with the slit that he'd picked out after their first visit with Dr. George, another black, lacy item that he shuffled past rather quickly (burying it back in the bag...when she asked him to show her what it was, he only said, "Maybe. If I can convince you." And she laughed some more), a short coral concoction that she'd worn in New York (a gift from Mrs. Larsen that had certainly enhanced her then-small assets)...

"Matthew!" she cried, sitting up all the way. "That will _not_ fit me!" But she was laughing so hard, her stomach hurt.

"Of course it will. It will go right over your belly," he demonstrated, holding the coral number up and pointing to the empire waistline. It was constructed to push up whatever one put inside of it.

"I'm not worried about my belly," she continued to snicker. "I'm worried about these." She gestured towards her breasts.

He grinned at her. "Oh, don't worry–I thought of that. They'll fit. But just barely. Believe me, I considered the situation at length."

She was laughing still when he pulled out the last item: the most comfortable, demure nightgown she owned.

"Oh, Matthew," she murmured, rising to her knees so she could move to the foot of the bed and put her arms around him, the old nightgown between them. She kissed him, one hand in his hair, the other on his cheek, so long and in such a sweet way, that he felt a bit dizzy. When she pulled back, to look into his eyes she told him, "Now, don't make a big to-do about my next words. But you were right. We _did_ need to get away."

"Kiss me again, like you just did, and I promise not to write down in my diary that on this day in late July, Lady Mary Crawley admitted that she was wrong and that I was right." She was laughing still as she kissed him again, her arms sliding around his neck so she could press her body against his.

"I'll go change," she murmured, digging into her bags for a few other things before going into the bathroom, taking the white robe with her. He waited awhile, then he knocked and she called him in. She was halfway finished taking her hair down, pins scattered on the the side of the sink. Her arms were raised above her head as she finished her task and her position had the robe rising several inches. With the foresight of a wife who knew her husband well, Mary had brought the matching undergarments she had not worn on her wedding night, considering them superfluous beneath the nightgown and the robe. He therefore had not had the opportunity to see them then, but he got a glimpse of them now and while the view was arresting, as always, especially in that robe, he had to touch her, to feel the silk and her body beneath. He took her hips in his hands and kissed her neck. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of his lips on her skin, silk sliding against his shirt, and the pins she was now dropping, quite clumsily, from her hair to the sink.

Suddenly, he stopped his ministrations. "What is that smell?" he asked.

"I don't smell anything," she replied as she pulled out the last pin and turned in his arms.

"It's not unappealing. I just know it from somewhere," he insisted. He'd barely finished the thought before she leaned forward and captured his bottom lip with her mouth, wrapping her arms around his waist as she led him out of the bathroom.

It felt like they were in New York again. The effortlessness of that time returned, the ease, the humor, and soon he was naked while she was still in her robe, lying on top of him, plying him with kisses.

"Wait," he muttered after a few moments. He took her by the shoulders and rolled her off of him very gently. "It's not unappealing, like I said, but I _do _know that smell."

"You do?" she asked hesitantly, biting her lip with a hint of guilt.

"Yes!" Matthew cried in triumph, as the memory returned to him. "You smell...like your mother." The horror slowly crept into his voice.

Mary sighed very loudly, removed the pillow from behind her head, placed it over her face and screamed into it. He laughed at her and batted her hands away so he could remove the pillow.

"_Why _do you smell like your mother?"

Mary told herself to be calm. She told herself that this would not ruin the honeymoon they'd never had, would not kill the romance of it. "Have you ever seen my mother's hands? Her neck? Even her face?"

He scratched his jaw. "I've _seen _them. I don't know if I've paid attention to them."

"Well, my mother has hands that look as young as mine. There isn't a wrinkle on her neck and her face is unlined," Mary explained as if it were obvious. "It's because every single night and every single morning she rubs this cream into her hands, into her neck, and onto her face."

"Mary." He looked a bit pained. "You have lovely hands." He kissed them. "You have a lovely neck." He pressed a kiss there. "You have have a lovely face." He kissed both of her cheeks. He thought it was odd, but none of those places seemed to be where the scent was coming from.

She rolled her eyes. "Let me explain something to you. I will continue to gain weight. And as I do, my skin will stretch to accommodate the baby. Once the baby is in my arms instead of my belly, I will lose weight–but I don't want marks or lines from where the skin stretched to begin with, so I use my mother's brand of lotion. I did it with Gracie, too, and you've never complained about the results," she said, arching an eyebrow at him, tilting her chin as if daring him to argue.

"All right," he replied, a bit uncertainly. "It's all right." But it was obviously not completely _all right._

She grabbed the pillow he'd taken from her and hit him in the face with it. "Just because I use the same cream as my mother does not mean you're _making love to my mother_." She grinned wickedly, well aware of what his reaction would be to such a statement.

"Mary!" he cried and pressed his fingers to his eyes as if her words had created horrible images. "_Please_."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine," she retorted, turning onto her side, away from him. "Let me know when you've gotten over this issue you seem to have."

Their stalemate lasted for about three minutes, when she felt him spoon against her, his arm coming around his waist, his other hand pushing away her hair so he could apologize in the form of kisses to her neck.

She wiggled back against him and he groaned as she tilted her head back to kiss him. "Well, it certainly _feels _as if you're over it," she murmured breathlessly, as he untied the knot at her waist.

* * *

><p>After, Mary reclined on her stomach (she felt as if she must take advantage of these last days when this position was possible since it would be months before she could repeat it) and Matthew was on his side stroking her, from the back of her neck and down, lazily. "Mmm," she sighed.<p>

The windows were still open but it was nearly dusk as they both relaxed, naked, with one another. "We can ring Gracie tomorrow," Matthew told her, breaking the easy silence. "I asked about it. We can use the phone in the main hotel."

She turned to smile shyly at him. "You miss her too," she realized.

"Of course I do," he replied, still stroking in that lazy way of his. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

She shrugged. "I thought maybe it was different for mothers and fathers. But I'm glad that you will. I'm glad you let me have my cry in the car. And even though I miss her, I'm glad that I'm here, with you, right now."

His hand cupped the back of her neck, turning her face so he could kiss her. The simplicity of it, the longing in that kiss, the ache in her belly, had her turning onto her side as well where they went on kissing for quite some time.

"I used to dream of this, you know," he whispered against her lips after a long while of just kissing. She smiled, taking his words as a joke. "I'm serious," he added, but not serious enough to stop kissing her to explain fully. Kisses punctuated pieces of his sentence: "I dreamt...of the two of us...naked like this...lying together...and kissing on and on...after they told me...I would never...walk again...or...ever...you know...either."

She pulled her mouth from his, her nose brushing his. "You are serious," she realized. "But..."

She was right in her assumption; there were times when he had dreamed of Mary while Lavinia was wearing his ring. But there was also a chunk of time, after he'd sent Lavinia away, especially at night..."It was better than the dreams I had of walking again when I couldn't feel anything below my waist," he joked. "At least in these, I was able to see you naked."

"And in these dreams," she began, winding her arms around his neck, her leg over his hip. "Did we only ever kiss?"

The room was growing darker as the sun continued to set. "No," he revealed.

She kissed his jaw, his neck, his shoulder. "Did we play cards? Drink port? Talk of our favorite books? Debate politics?"

He smiled while she nuzzled into him, his hand sliding along her side to cup one of her breasts. "You'd come into my room," he whispered. "And...here. Let me show you."

So he did.

* * *

><p>That night, he dreamt he could not make his legs work. He was back in that chair and as hard as he thought, <em>move, move, move<em>, they would not. He was hollow from the waist down, dead from the waist down. If he had been a tree instead of a man, they would have cut him down lest he rot away. And in his dream, there was no Mary, naked or otherwise–only his empty legs. He jerked awake and was glad of it, until Mary's head lifted and she looked up at him sleepily because he knew she would ask: "What is it?" and he did not want to explain about anymore dreams, not on this trip. She'd changed into white robe, for form's sake, and her hair was mussed. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," he swallowed. "Just a bad dream. Not a _nightmare,_" he clarified. "Not like before...I just couldn't feel my legs...It's only because we were talking of it before we fell asleep."

For a moment, she rested her her head on his chest. She could hear his heart beating terribly fast. No, she could tell it was not like the very bad dream he'd had recently, the one he had been unable to even speak of, but it was still bad _enough._ She crawled out of his arms and walked to the end of the bed. She pressed her thumbs into the bottom of his feet. "Can you feel this?"

"Mary, I–"

She ignored him, her fingers caressing both of his achilles' tendons. "And this?"

He nodded in the dark as she climbed onto the edge of the bed to massage his calves, which were as hard as rocks from the tension of the dream. Her fingers were strong as they massaged out the tension.

After several minutes, she asked, "What about this?"

"Yes," he murmured, one hand gripping the sheet. It was like a fantasy, in the dark, with the white curtains blowing.

Her delicate hands drew circles on the back of his knees. "Here?"

"Yes." Now his other hand gripped the sheet.

Her fingers walked up his thighs, her legs straddling his. "And this?" Her fingers continued to walk north.

He nodded.

"All right." He could feel her breath on his skin as she leaned over him. "Let me know if you can feel this."

And then she didn't use her hands at all...or not much.

After she'd cuddled him a bit, while he recovered from what had been one of the most erotic experiences of his life thus far, she stood and found the kitchen, filling a glass of water. She drank half of it before filling it again and bringing it back to him.

"Here you are," she murmured.

He took it and gulped the whole thing down. "_Mary_." Though he knew he was no longer shuddering, he felt as if he were. "I don't even know what to say. That–you were incredible. My dreams were pathetic compared to that."

She smiled, slipped beneath the sheets. She was very proud of herself.

"Are you gloating?" he asked after a few moments.

She lifted her head to look at him. Her hair was in complete disarray but since it had been his hands entangled in it, he did not mention it. "Of course I am."

* * *

><p>He woke her, much, much, much too early, the way he used to, in New York, before the morning sickness had started, when he was on holiday, with no alarm clock waking him for work. She was still pulsing around him when she very throatily murmured, "Well, <em>good<em> morning." She turned her head to kiss him, all the while pulsing, pulsing, pulsing and his eyes rolled forward from the back of his head. "That's certainly a better wake up than being sick."

He kissed her neck, ran his hand over and up her belly. "It's better than the sound of the alarm clock, too."

"Don't move," she commanded him breathlessly. "I think I still want you."

"Still?" he asked, pressing a sweet kiss to the silk on her shoulder since she insisted on wearing some type of clothing while they slept (though now the robe was bunched up, encasing only her arms). "Mary, I–it will take a little time. We've been together quite a bit in under twenty four hours."

"It's not me," she explained. "It's the baby. One minute all I can think about is getting my hands on you and I'm insatiable; the next minute I don't relish the thought of touching you. You should take advantage of moments like this."

"You _don't relish the thought_ of touching me?" he asked, a bit offended, as he was still inside her. "Did you _relish the thought_ last night when you–"

She interrupted him. "I told you. It's the baby. He's making everything wonky..."

She went completely still.

"You just said _he_," Matthew pointed out. "You're usually abnormally objective with your pronouns."

"I didn't say _he_," she insisted. "I said _the baby_."

He untangled himself from her so he could turn her and look at her while they spoke. "No, Mary. I'm quite sure you said _he. _Do you think it's a boy?"

She pursed her lips, as she debated with herself. "It's complicated."

"Mary," he laughed and rubbed his nose against hers, "everything with us is complicated."

"That's not true," she complained. "Wasn't I just saying that I wanted you again? _That _is uncomplicated." He grabbed onto her distracting, wandering hands.

"Mary," he said solemnly. "Haven't I proven that it doesn't matter to me if it is a boy or a girl? It really doesn't. But just for now, here, away from Downton, can't we just be one of those normal couples? Who bicker over names? Who take bets on whether it is a boy or a girl? Who laugh about the words _entail _and _heir?_"

"We bicker over everything, I don't see why names will be any different," she said under her breath. But she saw the way he was looking at her, with so much earnestness. She'd never known anyone as tenacious as Matthew, except her own self. "It's complicated for many reasons."

"But you feel as if it is a boy?" he repeated. "How did you feel with Gracie?"

"I don't know, really. I never had a clear thought like, _oh, it's definitely a girl. _But I realized later that whenever I thought of her in my mind, I thought of _she._"

"You said _he _just now_._"

"Yes, I know what I said," she admitted. "But it's more complicated. What if some part of me just wants to please my father? What if the pressure for an heir has embedded itself somewhere inside of me so that I feel as if I need it to be a boy? Would I think it was a boy if we were that couple you were just talking about, away from Downtown, bickering over names? I don't know. I don't trust my instincts in this situation. And I don't want to get your hopes up, either."

"Mary, I've told you..."

"I know what you've said. And I know you meant it. But I didn't want to get _my_ hopes up either. Not because I wouldn't love another girl. You know I only want this baby to be healthy. But...what if the pressure my father has put on us really _has_ affected us? What if it's a girl and we are disappointed?" A tear spilled from her eye, "I couldn't bear it. I really couldn't."

"How long have you been thinking about all these things?" He rubbed her stomach, comforting her and the baby inside, with gentle strokes.

She bit her lip. She knew that question was a prelude to a bit of tussle. "Awhile," she admitted, her shoulders slumping. "But only more intensely since that awful luncheon. And yes, I know," she said, rolling her eyes, "I should have talked to you. But...can't this just be one of those times when you let the fact that I should have talked to you _go_? Considering how much has been going on already? You were already worried about my worrying. I couldn't admit to _actually_ worrying. And haven't I been better lately? Trusting you? Needing and depending on you and all _that_?" Now she rolled her eyes at her own self.

He kissed her briefly. "It's a wonder any of that last bit made any sense to me." He leaned down and pressed his cheek to her belly as she began to stroke his hair. "How about this: I'll bet you a pound that it's a girl," he whispered, his lips touched the skin near her navel.

"I'll take that bet, husband." She smiled. "Now, do you want to bicker over names?"

He lifted his head to look at her and his hand began to rub her belly again. "I think this baby should be named exactly how you named Grace."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I think this baby should have his or her own name, not a family one..." he replied thoughtfully.

"So you don't ever want a little Matthew?" she asked, as her body relaxed by the sound of his voice, his hair in her hand, and his lazy strokes to her belly, and she sighed.

"No, I don't think I do. I want our children to be themselves. Being a Crawley is pressure enough, as the past months have proven. But for the middle name, I think we should choose like you did with Gracie–the name of someone who has certain specific qualities we admire."

She had no idea why she was crying. No idea whatsoever. "You are awfully traditional for a solicitor from Manchester." He moved to wipe away her tears and she stopped him. "There is no point. I couldn't tell you why I'm crying even if you begged me."

He thought she was beautiful, completely relaxed, naked but for her arms through her robe, one arm beneath her head, weeping for no reason at all in the morning light. "What are the chances that the name will just come to us, perfectly, as it did with you and the name Grace?"

"What?" she asked, confused. Then her face cleared. "Oh, you're reading the letters. I don't know. Maybe it will? Should we have a list? Is there a name you particularly like, for a boy or a girl?"

"No," he shook his head. "It's difficult trying to name someone you've never met, face to face at least."

"Did you realize we're almost halfway there, Matthew? Until we meet this baby?" She closed her eyes. "And soon we'll get to hear," she paused, "_his_ heartbeat."

He had to kiss her belly again. He had to. "I cannot wait to hear _her _heartbeat."

They both laughed until their sides ached. They could have been anywhere in the world. Downton was the farthest thing from their minds.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, when it was actually morning for the civilized world, the bell rang. Matthew threw on a robe and went to fetch their breakfast which he brought to Mary in bed. "Let's have a holiday every day," she joked. They ate off one other's plates, drank from one another's cups. When it came to deciding what they'd like to do that day, it was unanimous–to Mary, Matthew, and the baby–that they get dressed and phone Gracie and then spend the rest of the day in bed.<p>

"It's like a honeymoon," Matthew observed. "I like it." He removed the tray and set it on a nearby table. "Next year, we'll come back with the children."

"Well this time, we brought Baby," she patted her belly. "And when I say Baby, I mean our Baby, not dog Baby."

He rolled her on top of him and her legs naturally surrounded his hips. "I know you love Baby the dog. I know you're pining for her right now, wishing she was scratching at the door to be let into our bed. You can't convince me otherwise."

She kissed him until he was literally breathless. "Can I convince you of something else altogether?" she whispered.

* * *

><p>Gracie was playing in the backyard of Crawley House with Baby while her parents kissed near the sea. She threw the ball and Baby brought it back to her. And wasn't this game fun! She laughed and did not mind a bit that the dog's slobber covered the ball. Iz was supposed to be watching her from her chair, but Gracie thought she must have fallen asleep. She felt a bit guilty (though she would not be able to name the feeling) since Iz was probably tired because Gracie had cried and cried last night when she realized Mama or Papa would not be rocking her to sleep. Poor Iz, she thought, just like Mama would say when she cried or hurt herself, <em>my poor, poor girl. We'll fix you right up, we will!<em>

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man and a woman pause by the gate. She knew the man; or at least she'd seen him sometime before, though she didn't know when or where. The lady beside him looked a bit like Mama, only Mama was prettier. "Hello there," said the man. His voice was low enough that Iz kept sleeping. "Are Mama and Papa not at home this weekend?" The woman, who looked like Mama, pulled at the man's arm.

She did not know–yet–to be wary of strangers.

But even if she had known, they didn't seem like strangers. Maybe if Gracie had not recognized the man or maybe if the woman had not looked like Mama, she wouldn't have walked towards them. She looked up, peering at them, and smiling. She liked to smile. Mama always said, _You're my happy girl._ Sometimes, after Mama said this, she would tap Gracie's nose and say, _I love you._

But then Baby began to bark. It was not a nice or a happy bark. It was mean. Baby snapped and growled and Iz woke up and must have seen the man and the woman because she called very sternly, "Gracie, come here." Gracie listened, because Iz was someone she must listen to–just like Mama and Papa and Vi and Sybil and Tom (but not Rob). Baby continued to bark ferociously, in a way Gracie had never heard her before, until the man and woman were long gone. Baby licked Gracie's hands, jumped a little to kiss her face. She would not leave Grace's side, even in the house.

Isobel's heart was in her throat when she was startled awake by Baby's growls, only to see Richard Carlisle scrutinizing her sweet granddaughter's face. She didn't know what he meant to do but she immediately went inside with Grace and Baby and telephoned Violet.

Violet was very matter-of-fact. "You must pack up your things and Gracie's and come stay with us. You cannot stay there by yourselves overnight."

"There is Molesley..."

"Oh, Molesley couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag," Violet replied dismissively. "I'll send the car for you. And you'll leave instructions that when Matthew and Mary ring, you can be reached at the Dower House, that you and Gracie are having a holiday, too."

"All right. I agree. I don't think we should tell them anything until after they get back. If at all. I wouldn't want to worry them unnecessarily," Isobel agreed. "Oh...one more thing. What about the dog?"

* * *

><p>Later in the day, Matthew spoke through the door as Mary changed. "The Dower House must be filled to the brim, what with Mother and Gracie and Baby there, too."<p>

She opened the door and peeked around it. "Yes, well. Are the curtains closed? The thick ones that keep out the light? And are _all _the lights off?"

He rolled his eyes as he dealt with the curtains, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked back to her, then pulling off his pants. Maybe it was presumptuous of him, but she was putting on the coral nightgown and he did not think they would be discussing politics. "All clear." She started to tiptoe out of the bathroom but then skittered back.

"What are you doing just standing there? As if I am going to pose in this for you? Get under the sheets!" she complained quite grumpily.

"All clear," he repeated once he had followed her instructions, trying desperately not to roll his eyes.

This time she was more cautious. The room was not as dark as she would liked but perhaps it would be dark enough.

She was entirely wrong, but Matthew would never tell her that. Her skin was luminous and the nightgown bright so as he watched her hurry to the bed and slip beneath the sheets, he saw every bit of her and it was enough to have him biting his tongue to keep from groaning at the way her breasts, her simply magnificent breasts, were showcased and straining against the silken fabric.

"Mary," he practically croaked. Turning onto his side, he kissed her, surprising her with the extent of his desire and his ferocity; he was not slowly simmering but already boiling. It took only a moment of his enthusiastic use of lips and tongue and teeth before her fuse was lit, so to speak, and she met him beat for beat. She raised a hand to his cheek, then slid it back into his hair and he groaned, torn between her mouth and her breasts, which were definitely within reach now. He realized he didn't have to choose and cupped her breasts in his hands, massaging them gently through the thin fabric, reminding himself how tender they'd been as of late, all while thoroughly kissing her. She moaned into his mouth and moved closer, pushing her chest into his hands more fully. His thumbs brushed her nipples maddeningly, over and over again.

"Matthew," she gasped, breaking away from his kiss for a moment. She wanted him, needed him _now_, and the extent of it was overwhelming when after such a short prelude to _more._

When she pulled her mouth away to gasp, he took the opportunity to dip his head to her bosom, which was literally bursting out of this nightgown, licking and kissing and sucking every part of them that was exposed, which seemed to be everything but the... And then his mouth was sucking on her nipples, _through_ the thin fabric. She cried out immediately, digging her fingers into his hair. When he moved to give her other breast the same treatment, she could feel the wet spot where his mouth had been. He kissed and laved his tongue back up again, eventually all the way to her mouth. He just really could not get over his fascination with her breasts, despite how she seemed to be arching her lower body towards him.

He pulled the skinny straps down her arms with both hands, at the same time, and the objects of his fascination spilled out for him to taste more fully and he had to, he just had to...She was keening, very close to begging when one of his hands slid between her thighs.

She thought she would break apart–what with the way his mouth was worshipping her and the way his hand was...She could not breathe, the ache, the need, grew so intense. She was making all sorts of sounds she would be embarrassed of later. Then she was crying out his name, pulsing around his hand, and crying out his name again as he very gently swirled his tongue around one of her nipples. Her body had tightened and tensed and now was completely lax, like water really, but he was sure, he was positive, he could bring her over again.

Dimly, she was aware that her nightgown was still on, though it had been pulled down and pushed up so there was a coral band around her middle, that he was still touching and licking her breasts. She let him continue. She couldn't even think. But when he sucked one of her nipples into his mouth, she felt the echo of desire between her thighs. She was always surprised when he managed to do this to her more than once. She realized it was different for women but it was still surprising that she could...that he could make her...His hands were back to cupping her breasts as if they were something precious, and obviously from the amount of attention he was giving them, they were. He was lost in her and this, of course, always pleased her. So she reached down, bending a little (his mouth just followed her) and held him in her hand. He immediately stilled. She didn't even feel embarrassed when she said, in a voice that was breathy and so unlike her own, "Please. I want you inside me this time. I want you..."

As if coming out of a daze, he slipped his hands under her arms, around her back and up to her shoulders, where he could cup them from behind, and hold her in place. They were both breathing as if they'd been running. She took him in her other hand as well–so hard and hot, and throbbing really–and led him to her, teasing him by running his tip...He squeezed her shoulders so tightly she would have burst if she'd been a balloon, and finally she led him where he belonged and he thrust into her, hard and fast, exactly how she wanted it. "Oh, Matthew," she whispered in warning.

"Not yet," he begged of her. "Please." So he slowed his pace to slow and languid.

Her thighs trembled. "Matthew," she moaned, pushing his name out with effort. The next time he was all the way inside of her, she clamped her muscles around him. He groaned _so _loudly. "I can't stand this. You're driving me mad," she told him in a very haggard voice.

He managed a brief smile, his hands on her shoulders sliding a bit from their sweat. "Stay with me," he asked of her. "Look at me." She opened her eyes and nearly drowned in the blue of his. It only drove her closer to the edge, seeing her desire mirrored in his eyes.

His pace began to quicken again. "Yes," she cried out, throwing her head back which he took as an opportunity to suck at her neck, even as he slowed again.

"Look at me," he insisted. When she did, he began to move again, really move and she knew this time would be it for her. Her body began to ripple. "I love you," he gasped, watching her. "I love you." She started to shake and then began to pulse, slowly at first, then quickening. All the while, she tried to keep her eyes open and on his.

She moaned, so long and so low, that it encouraged Matthew to thrust himself into her harder. She fell from the cliff she'd been on, shattering in the same way a wave breaks as it reaches the shore. She did not hear the pitch or the volume of her own shriek. Her aftershocks, the way she became a vise around him, her muscles alternating in tenseness and relaxation, the feeling of her nipples against his bare chest, pushed him over, and he gripped her shoulders and let out a shout.

After a few minutes, she purred, "Mmmm." She knew they were a mess and she wondered if she could convince him that a shower could be much more than a shower.

"I'm done in," he muttered, though somehow his face was between her breasts again, as if even though exhausted and finished, he could not leave them. He kissed one and then the other. "I don't think I'll be able to move for days, really."

She laughed, low in her throat. "I think I can convince you."

He levered himself up, so they were nose to nose. "Mary." He was going to have to have a talk with her about her expectations of a man's stamina.

"Matthew," she replied in that same serious tone. She looked at him through her lashes. "We're very sweaty."

"Yes." Was she wiggling that way on purpose? So her breasts slid, slick with sweat, on his chest?

"We should shower," she suggested, then nuzzled her way to his ear. "So you just recharge, darling. Because I want to make love with you in the shower, hard and fast, so you forget to be gentle with me, just a bit, until we're both screaming." She leaned back and looked at him. "Does that sounds agreeable to you?"

He licked his lips, watching her, and tasted her there. "We can't take a shower in the dark. It could be dangerous."

"Hmm," she considered. "I suppose you're right. I suppose you will need to make love to me in that bright bathroom lighting. I suppose," she wiggled closer, "that you'll be able to see every part of me perfectly. Wet, too." She paused. "But that's only if you're _up _for it, Matthew."

He twitched inside of her.

* * *

><p>Much, much, much later, they made it back to bed, stumbling but very, very clean. They both slept for a long while–Mary on her back, Matthew on his stomach, his arm around her middle, his nose in her hair. Yet, somehow, miraculously, she woke to him fondling her breasts. "Don't get excited," he told her. "I won't be able to do more than touch until I get some food in me. Besides, you and the baby <em>definitely<em> need food."

She gritted her teeth together. "Then, maybe if you can't do more than touch, you shouldn't touch," she offered in what would have been a haughty tone of voice if he hadn't caught the hint of desire beneath it.

"Mary," he murmured, stroking her belly now. "I cannot believe you let me see you in the light that way."

"Yes, well, sometimes certain concessions must be made with the end goal in mind," she grinned.

"You're beautiful, gorgeous. Your body," his voice went husky (which she really didn't find fair since he'd already admitted that he couldn't _do_ anything), "is just so...lush. I mean," he brushed his thumb over a nipple, "really. What's there to be embarrassed of?"

"Matthew, please, either go back to sleep or stop touching me and go find provisions because I cannot..."

He grinned lazily at the way she scrambled over his words. "Provisions, I think."

"Good," she sighed. "Go." And she practically pushed him out of the bed.

For form's sake, she put her robe on as they ate cold chicken and potatoes in their bed. "It's like our wedding night," he told her and leaned over for a kiss. He had no qualms over eating naked. "But back to your body," he insisted. "I never knew you to ever worry about that sort of thing."

She laughed. "Well, I never had to before. It's different now. I'm pregnant. The last time, I didn't even think of it, because no one was going to see me. There was no one that I wanted to want me..."

"Mary, you must know..."

"Believe me, I know that I appeal to you this way," she explained shyly. "But you do know I won't stay like this? First, I'll get bigger and bigger. My belly won't be cute anymore. And then these," she gestured to his two current obsessions, "they'll go back to what they were before."

"I liked them before too," he admitted without an ounce of shame. "I thought I made that very clear in New York."

"But..."

"I don't know why you have to make it fit together, how I can want you both ways, any way. I love you. I want you. Any way I can have you. And if I've appeared more enthusiastic as of late, a great deal of that comes from knowing you more intimately now...I'm comfortable to express my desire. I was very nervous at first, you know."

"So you said," she replied, remembering how he'd been the one to shake when she put her arms around him and kissed him in her white robe. "But you were nervous, even after the first time?"

"Not nervous," he shook his head. "But I wanted you so badly, Mary, and for so long. I was afraid I would scare you with the depth of my wanting. There were a million things I didn't know about you yet."

She laughed. "That's impossible. You've known me for ten years."

He moved the tray, shut the lights and opened the window to let the ocean air in. They reclined together, companionably. "I didn't know _everything_. I didn't know that literally any time I sucked on your bottom lip, you would moan. I didn't know the sounds you make in the back of your throat right before you...I didn't know about the constellation of beauty marks you have here..." His hand traced her upper thigh. "I didn't know how sensitive the back of your knees were." His hand moved lower. "Or how freezing cold your toes would be. I was getting to know a whole new part of you, just as you were getting to know a whole new part of me. We would never have been able to have to communicate the way we do, while you were in that nightgown during the act, in April."

"No," she agreed. She blushed, but not as brightly as she would have months ago.

"And I was nervous because I wanted you to be comfortable enough to tell me what you wanted or needed," he explained.

"I didn't know how to communicate it," she replied honestly, "then."

"So, you see, it's not a matter of wanting you more one way or less the other, it's just us getting better at all of it..."

She laughed and wiggled towards him. "The first time. The first time you said I was perfect."

"You were," he untied her robe. "How was I to know I was dealing with a prodigy?"

Her smile was so smug he had to laugh. "I think we can take equal credit, darling."

"All that is to say, I wish you weren't embarrassed by your body, how it's changing. Because I _like _it."

"But what if one day, when I'm eight months pregnant," she arched her eyebrow, "and I'm not even promising that I'll want to when I'm eight months pregnant–but what if you look at me and think I'm a cow or ugly?" She rushed on even though he opened his mouth to speak. "I know what it feels like when you want me. And knowing that, it wouldn't...It would hurt to know you didn't. But of course, I know you can't promise to always want me. So," she shrugged.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her for a very long time, with such an amount of depth of feeling, that she found tears burning the backs of her eyes. "Mary. I love you. All the time. I want you. Believe me, I can promise."

She lay in his arms, perfectly content, perfectly happy. There was no place she would rather be. "So what was that bit of black lace you tried to hide from me?" she asked, tickling his sides.

"Really?" he asked.

"Well, I haven't seen it yet. But yes, probably. But then after, I have to rub my belly with my mother's cream..."

"Can't we call it something else?" he begged as he rose and found the nightgown in question. He hadn't known she owned it so it must have been one of Mrs. Larsen's more scandalous choices. It was made of black lace, with no backing fabric beneath it, and at this point it would hug every curve she had. "Can't it just be _your_ cream?" He tossed her the nightgown.

She laughed. "Where did you find this?"

"When you gave me leave to paw through your drawers. I found it in the back. Mrs. Larsen?" he asked.

"Of course. Oh, I miss her."

"Right now? You miss Mrs. Larsen_ right now_?" It was just too much to handle–talk of her mother and now Mrs. Larsen.

"No, it's just...When she gave this one to me, she said in that wonderful throaty voice of hers, before we knew I was expecting: _Now don't wear this one the first time out. Or even the second time._" Her American accent and impression of Mrs. Larsen was more than fair. "And then she gave me a description of what would happen if I wore it too early in our," she coughed, "relationship."

"What did she say would happen?"

"I can't repeat it," she said and held the lace up to cover her face.

"Yes, you can, especially since I packed some chocolate bars and I'll give you one," he teased.

"This is what we've come to? You're bribing me with food?" She sat up. She wanted to cover her breasts but didn't. "Where is it?"

"What did she say? I want to know so I can be prepared for it, if it happens." He climbed back into bed with her and gave her the chocolate.

"She was explicit. You know how she got a thrill out of being that way with me. _That proper English upbringing,_" Mary quoted and then pretended to smoke a cigarette. "All right...She said that you would...as soon as you saw me in it."

"Well put it on, darling. Let's see." His face was alight with humor.

"I wasn't pregnant when she bought it."

"You weren't pregnant when she bought that coral one either but you saw what that did to me."

It turned out that Mrs. Larsen was wrong. Although later, he would admit that it had been a close call.

* * *

><p>She woke him up at three in the morning, wearing her white robe, leaning over him to kiss him awake. He tried to embrace her but she moved away. She'd remembered the end of her memory, the one by the seashore, when her father had held her and pressed his cheek to her hair. "Matthew," she whispered. "I want to put my feet in the ocean before we go home."<p>

"Now?" he asked. A sudden vision of her in lacy black hit him, his mouth tasting her skin through the lace, and there she was dancing in that robe. He was not thinking about _the ocean._

"Yes," she replied and left their room. A moment later, he heard her close the front door. So he found pajama bottoms and rushed after her, thinking the hormones were making her crazy and what if someone saw them? She was in her robe for God's sake. When he said as much to her, as they walked on the sand towards the water, she laughed.

"Who is going to see?" The wind turned her hair into ribbons he wanted to take in his hands.

"I don't know," he said hopelessly, realizing that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in that moment.

This is how Mary's memory ended: Papa's cheek against her hair, her tears and seawater in her mouth, Mama making a fuss and Papa demanding that the party continue on without them. She could not remember how he had convinced her mother, with her breathy panic and fluttering hands, to leave them alone, but he had and it was just the two of them. "Here, Mary," Papa had said, and he had removed her ruined shoes and socks. He'd never done such a thing before but then he took off his own shoes and socks too. He wiggled his toes in the sand and made her laugh, tasting salt on her own lips, and she stopped crying. "You just wanted to put your feet in the sea, didn't you, darling?" he asked kindly. She must have nodded because he stood her up and took her hand and they walked to the water's edge. She'd never seen Papa's feet before and they were so very big next to her own. And she was not afraid, holding his hand, as the waves came in and out, as their feet sunk into the wet sand. She remembered laughing.

How much of it was true and how much of it was a wish, she could not say. She only knew that once she'd awakened, she'd needed to put her feet in the sea.

She wrapped her arms around Matthew's waist and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, while the water rushed over their ankles. In his ear, she whispered, "Someday I want to be able to tell this baby: Mama and Papa went on a trip while you were in Mama's belly. And we put our feet in the ocean, with you in my belly, and we held on to each other, and we loved you so much. We were so glad that you were with us."

It was as if she were reading one of her letters to him, and it moved him unbelievably. This was Mary, the mother, the writer, so intent on remembering moments so that one day she could lay them out for their children and say: _Look. Look at how much we always loved you. You were always the best parts of us._

* * *

><p><em>AN: Richard is interested in Gracie? M and M finally "unwind?" Mary remembers something about her father? Holla. I would love to hear from everyone, everyone, everyone! Because chapter 40 is not writing itself! Eeek! This is the least I have ever been ahead in this whole process so...eeek!_


	40. Chapter 40

_A/N: Hello! Long time no see. But first, some business to discuss...the chapters are becoming longer (literally double the and triple the length of earlier chapters) and the story is getting more intense. I am no longer able to update AS often. But I think there is a happy medium. How about three times a week? Will you work with me on that–I promise the story will be better for it. Also, a few people asked to know where we are on the timeline. As of the "babymoon," it was late July and Mary was 15 weeks. This chapter and the next put us at early August so Mary is 16 to 17 weeks. Sybil will be full term in the middle of August. So yes, to those who asked, she is ready to pop. _**_Faeyero–_**_your help was so necessary with this chapter. You really are the robin to my batman, friend. Finally, thank you to all the reviewers. You guys have been great! I hope this was worth the wait. *anxiously bites finger nails*_

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><p>Chapter Forty<p>

The summons came in the form of Mary's father appearing on the doorstep, hat in hand, no car in sight. His penance must have been the walk between Downton and Crawley House. Mary found herself wondering if he were truly contrite or if he only wanted to appear so and yet she knew such thoughts were unfair, unworthy, especially since he had not spoken a word yet. She opened the door, with Grace on her hip, and was suddenly struck by the memory of the seashore. How this same man in front of her, who had hurt her and refused to stand by her, also ran into the ocean to save her and then held her hand while the ocean lapped at their feet. She must have been only a bit older than Gracie was now, Edith just a baby on the nanny's hip.

"Hullo!" Gracie chirped. "You!"

"Hello," Robert replied, smiling, Mary supposed, for Gracie's benefit. Gracie held out her hand for Robert to shake, which he did, his lips curving more genuinely. "May I come in?" He directed the question at Mary but it was Gracie who answered, "Yes! Now!"

Mary wished she shared her daughter's sense of enthusiasm. She wished she could look up at this man with the optimism and cheerfulness her daughter possessed. Gracie did not yet know that people would disappoint her, even people she loved, even people who loved her, for surely the man who ran into the sea after the his daughter had loved that daughter and later disappointed her. If Mary closed her eyes, she could feel his cheek pressed to her wet hair, the desperate relief he felt.

Still, as a much-older Robert looked at a much-older Mary, there was something in his shoulders, perhaps a sense of humility, that had her opening the door wider for him to enter. Some strange part of her wanted to step towards him, to see if his arms would come around her and Grace, if all this could be solved with an embrace, if it could be that easy. _Nothing is that easy. And I'm not brave enough to risk my pride. _She only knew she was not capable of shutting the door in his face, that she had not been raised that way, that she had been taught that duty trumped petty emotions like love and hate. She could not change that part of herself just as she could not change the color of her eyes. "Yes, you may come in, Papa. Let me just see if Isobel can watch Gracie for me."

"Oh," Robert replied. He bent part of his hat in his hands, trying not to be offended. "I'm not here to argue or cause any problems. I only want to apologize and invite you to dinner."

Mary felt the pressure building in her chest. It was the same type of pressure she had felt whenever she had been told _be nice to Patrick, make sure you're nice to Patrick. _And then again later, _be nice to Matthew, be sure you're nice to Matthew; you might need him someday–_the pressure of duty. Of course, there were varieties of duties–this was only dinner–and yet it seemed every time she returned to her childhood home, some emotional catastrophe happened. Could she turn away from such a duty?

She remembered lying with Matthew in New York, how they'd promised to run their family the way they wanted to–a family of love without the emptiness of duty. The pressure in Mary's chest eased the tiniest bit. She remembered her father's wet suit and ruined shoes, her tears once she was safe on the shore in his arms, and the pressure eased even more–for surely that man had not run into the sea out of _duty_.

"Still," Mary continued, "I think it would be better if it was just us two. It's hard to keep track of her at this age with any distractions."

Of course Isobel was willing to watch Grace (although she was not willing to smile at Robert) and Baby trotted out the back door after Mistress Gracie. Baby, at least, understood both duty and love. Baby, it seemed, had wisdom that Mary did not share.

"That pup is almost as big as Grace," Robert said as he sat down on one of the chairs. Mary had chosen the divan.

"Yes." Mary smirked but continued without bite (and it was the memory of the seashore that kept her tone from becoming biting), "dogs _do_ tend to grow and Gracie isn't quite two yet."

He hardly heard her last sentence as he prepared himself for what he was going to say. In the end, her response to his inane observation went unnoticed. "I am very sorry for the luncheon. I should not have said what I did. It was not right. And I am sorry."

"Oh, Papa," Mary murmured. "I know you're sorry. I've always known. Even when you would not fight for me when it came to the entail, I knew that you were _sorry_. What hurts me is that you truly will be disappointed if this baby is a girl."

"Mary," he replied, his gaze on hers, "I know you don't understand it. But Downton is my life's work. Do you know what it would mean to me, if you, my daughter, and Matthew, the man I consider my son, were able to pass the title, the house, the entail down to a son? It would be the way things always should have been."

She had always wanted to ask him, whenever he repeated that refrain: _If Downton is your life's work...Then, what am I, Papa? Which is the duty and which is the love?_

"I know what it would mean to you," Mary admitted. "But it's not the same for me. _My life's work_ is protecting and loving my children and it's hard for me to be around people who tolerate my eldest daughter at best and are waiting with breath that is bated to see if my next child is a boy...You know it will break my heart if it's a girl and you look at her with disappointment."

_Because I know what it feels like to be that girl, the one you eye with disappointment. The girl you tell to marry Patrick, because it is her duty. The girl you tell to marry Matthew, out of duty._

_Now I am a woman and I married Matthew for love._

"I'm trying to explain," he offered. "I could lie to you instead," he added without malice. "I'm trying to be honest."

"I don't want you to lie, Papa." _I want you to change. _As soon as she thought it, she knew that it would have to be she who changed, who learned to love him again, the way that he was. She'd learned a long time ago that wanting another person to change was a waste of time and energy. She closed her eyes for a moment. "I suppose we'll never come to an agreement. And I know that this distance between us doesn't help matters."

"I've apologized for my comments, Mary," he repeated. "That's all I can do. And I don't know what's going on between you and your mother; please don't blame her for..."

Mary shook her head. "Mama's issues with Matthew and me are entirely separate from you."

_Mama loves too hard. She makes love a duty._

"But you can't tell me any more than that?" he asked ruefully. "She said as much herself. I don't think you would like to be in the dark as much as I am and have been, Mary."

"Of course I wouldn't. I would hate it," she replied, smiling. "And I wish I could tell you everything–but I can't, not until you know Gracie, and...love her."

Robert looked exasperated. "You can't force someone to love someone else."

_I am not forcing you to love anyone. I am asking you to love your granddaughter._

"No." Mary laid her hand on her belly. "But I have found that Gracie is the type of girl that you can't help but love...if you spend time with her."

"Regardless," Robert continued, more and more uncomfortable, completely oblivious to any of Mary's subtleties. "I'd like you to come to dinner Friday night."

"Papa...things are so strained right now..." _Let's not make this whole mess worse._

"Yes, but Edith is coming and Sybil has agreed to come as well. And I think this is important," he continued, unbending his hat and standing. "I know Robbie's birthday is Sunday but Edith has agreed to come to dinner on Friday and...it's important that all of you are there."

"All right," Mary replied. "Edith is what matters now. I'll talk to Matthew. I'm sure we'll be there. Are the children invited to dinner?"

"Of course they are," he smiled again, but his lips were thin; somehow she'd displeased him. She knew the look well. "You would only hate me more if I said otherwise."

"Oh, Papa!" Mary cried. "I don't hate you. How could you ever think that? If I hated you, the things you said wouldn't matter."

"It would appear," he stated quietly, "that what I have said or wanted has failed to matter for a very long time, since your Granny read that blasted letter to us, or maybe even before then."

Mary lowered her eyes and pressed her hands to her knees. "You've always mattered, Papa."

The look he gave her, so void of emotion, because he would not humiliate himself and say more, turned her stomach over. It made her feel as if they would be doomed to misunderstand each other for the whole of their lives.

He walked to the door looking sad and older than she could ever remember. She did not like to think that someday he would not be here. She did not like to think that she and Matthew would be left with a beautiful house but no Papa. How could a building replace a person? And what if Mary and Robert could not bridge this divide? What if years went by, years filled with misunderstandings?

She wanted to say: _do you remember when I ran into the sea and you ran after me and pulled me back to shore? Do you remember how I cried because I knew with you I was safe? Do you remember how you held me and pressed your cheek to my hair, as if I was something precious that could not be lost? Do you remember the way you shook with latent terror, as if losing me was a prospect you could not face? And then, Papa, do you remember how we held hands, together at the water's edge?_

_Do you remember when we loved one another _easily_?_

She wanted to say: _I only ever wanted you to love me. I only ever wanted you to pull me back to safety._

Instead, she said nothing and closed the door behind him. She wondered what she would tell Matthew, who appeared to be on the lookout for any possible stressors, as if he could keep life at bay while she was pregnant. She wondered about Edith, just a baby in her seaside memory, with a silly bonnet covering light hair that reminded Mary of a duckling. She wished Edith were there, that Edith didn't hate her, so that she could take her sister's hands in hers and say: _Oh, Edith. I just remembered. You were such a beautiful baby! _

For a long time, loving Edith had not been easy either. And suddenly, it hit Mary. She shut the door and pushed her back against it. She never loved with ease. Not her family, not her father, not Edith, not even Matthew. Oh, how hard it had been to love Matthew!

But then there had been Gracie. Before the doctor had laid the crying baby on her chest, Mary thought that loving must always be hard, filled with aches, longings, tears shed only in the middle of the night.

It had been Grace who taught her that love could come as easily as rain came from the sky.

* * *

><p>"So, what you're telling me is that we have to go to dinner there on Friday?" Matthew asked as he changed into his pajamas. She was sitting up, quite primly, in the bed, though she wore the damned white robe, the one she knew he could not resist. It was not a coincidence. It couldn't be.<p>

"I didn't say that you had to attend, Matthew," she said in a very civilized tone. "I'm only telling you that I am going and so is Gracie. Of course, I want you to come. But I won't force you."

"No," he rolled his eyes, "you won't force me but you will wear that robe with your hair all down like that, biting your lip."

She changed tactics as he crawled into bed. "Edith and Sir Antony will be there and I want to be there. She's my sister...And I haven't always been a good one. I want to be a good one now," she murmured earnestly. "It's important to me. Loving Edith...it's hard. I was lazy for a long time. I don't want to be anymore."

"But the way she treated you the last time..." he replied, moving closer to her so their shoulders touched.

"Loving _me _is also hard," Mary emphasized. "And she was in pain, grieving, exhausted and she couldn't make the effort. I don't blame her for that."

She wanted to say: _I don't remember when it changed. I don't remember when Edith and I stopped climbing trees that were too tall for Sybil or searching for the best sticks to throw for Pharaoh. _

_I remember petting her light hair as she cried, when Papa told us that one of the ponies had died; something had been wrong with the poor thing's lungs and though Edith didn't ride and never would, she laid her head in my lap and I stroked her hair. And maybe that's why she never rode, though I never thought to ask. Cars break but they can be fixed and then they are only machines. I couldn't have been older than ten when that pony died and I comforted Edith. _

_I don't remember when I started to call her _ugly_, when we grew to hate each other. Was it when we started to notice boys? And there was Patrick, who I never wanted, but whom I was willing to take in order to stay at Downton. And there was Edith, loving him or believing that she loved him (is there a difference at such an age?), listening to Mama and Papa and Granny instruct me how to nurture an affection between Cousin Patrick and me. _

_I don't remember when she started snooping in my things, when I began to belittle her clothing. I don't remember when our comments to each other became biting and brittle, as if whole sentences could snap in half. I only remember the baby with the yellow fuzz on her head and the girl who cried over a pony when she knew nothing of horses. _

Loving Edith had been hard and Mary could not remember when she'd stopped wanting to do the work.

She wanted to say: _I have no right to advocate for Edith when I have been a wretched older sister_,_ but I have to begin somewhere._

"You're right," he conceded, then sighed. "All right. I'll go. Let's just hope I'm not seated near your mother."

His wandering hand slipped beneath the sheet to stroke her thigh, his intentions very obvious. "Yes, and that's something else, darling. You still have not told me what she said to you."

"And I'm not going to." He squeezed her leg gently.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, _I know._ Because I am pregnant and life has been so stressful. And I love you for protecting me. But haven't I been better? I let you handle the Richard situation without pressing you for details; I relaxed on vacation...Haven't I been more trusting? I don't like that you can use this pregnancy as an excuse not to tell me things," she concluded, pouting.

He kissed her shoulder through the silk of her robe, nudging her hair aside with his nose. "It was more of the same that you heard before you left, I promise. It's just clear that she sees me as this nice chap who is a _father figure_ in Gracie's life." He tried to hide the pain of it, but she was too smart, and knew him too well not to hear it in his voice. She could only see his profile, but the hardness of his jaw gave him away.

_Oh, Mama. Loving you is so hard right now it feels impossible._

She turned towards him, tucking her head beneath that same hardened jaw. "You _must _know that's not true. You _must _know that's not what I think. Or Granny? Or your mother? Or, _most importantly_, Gracie herself?"

He wanted to shrug it off, like a child, as if it didn't matter, but instead pressed a kiss to her hair. "Yes, I know."

"Do you really?" she kissed his neck. "Don't you see how much she loves you? How when we came home from holiday it was _you_ she wanted to see first? How when she bumps her knee, she wants _you_ to kiss it? How when she is really upset, it's _you_ she wants? She loves you so much and she always has. From the moment she first saw you, it's been so easy for her to love you."

"Maybe it's because she's afraid I'll go away," he murmured, and she could tell this was some thought he'd been hiding away from her, a nasty seed that had been germinating for some time. "Maybe she ran to me first when we came home because she didn't know if I would come back?"

"Matthew," Mary whispered into his skin. His pain, his torment was palpable, really, and Mary felt it as her own. "She calls for you when she's hurt or sad because she knows _you'll always be there_. Don't you see?" Mary raised her head to look at him, tears brimming in her eyes. "I'm not jealous. I'm _glad. _A little girl always loves her papa best of all. That's the way things are. And I'm glad, I'm thankful," she ran a fingertip over his wedding ring, "that _you_ are the man who picks her up when she calls for her papa. And someday, when she is old enough to realize how simply lucky she is, I know she will tell you the same thing. I'm certain of it."

"Truly?" One side of his mouth curved up as she nodded and lifted one leg over his lap so she straddled him, comfortably sitting in his lap.

"I'm certain of it," she whispered, sliding her hands into his hair and kissing him gently, her lips soft, comforting, soothing, as she tilted her head and changed the angle of her mouth. His hand went to her hair, but he felt weak from her kiss. If he'd been standing, his legs would have became water.

_Loving Matthew had sometimes been hard, but this, this had always been easy for them._

"Mary," he murmured.

"Let me," she whispered against his lips and began to unbutton his pajama top, button by button, slowly, so every bit of skin revealed was like a surprise. When her mouth shifted, those quiet stirring kisses, moved to his neck; as she pushed his top off to his shoulders, her mouth moved to his lovely freckled shoulders.

He wanted to touch, to offer something, but it was as if she'd bewitched him. He could barely lift his hand to untie her robe. She didn't make a sound but for the hum in the back of her throat as she began to kiss him again. It didn't even matter that the lamp was on near his side of the bed, illuminating the room in a soft glow. When he pushed her robe off, she leaned closer to him, pressing herself to his chest, her hands lost in his hair. He thought he would go mad with the way she was kissing him, her nipples brushing his chest, as she began to move her hips–though he still wore his pajama bottoms. She was naked and unashamed, her mouth quiet and insistent, and his hands could only brush against her skin as her hips continued to move over his lap. He groaned, finally cupping her hips and helping her. God, he wanted to help her. But what was she thinking, driving him so quietly crazy? "Mary," he murmured, which was always his precursor to the end–and yet she was only moving naked on top of him. He was already close and he wanted to be inside her. He felt like a novice, a poor one at that, that so little could have him so close to the edge, that it took only this for him to be at her mercy. "_Mary_," he insisted , but she only continued to kiss him and move her hips, perhaps even a little more quickly. So it was left to him to maneuver out of his bottoms, which she didn't make it easy, her hips continuing to roll, and he groaned, wanting her, wanting her, wanting her, always wanting her.

"Mary," he asked, as he finally freed himself. "Please."

"Yes," she murmured against his lips, and she more than hummed as he entered her. She continued to move her hips, as he wrapped his arms completely around her back, holding her breasts and her belly to him. And when they both crested it felt like something cleansing, pure, complete; her arms wound around his neck, every part of her touching him; she'd completely encircled him. He _did_ feel comforted. "I love you," she told him in her drowsy voice that was only a precursor to sleep, and he wondered how he was going to get her off of him when she was still pulsing around him, when a part of him wanted her to fall asleep like this, naked and warm, on top of him, her growing belly resting against his skin.

"I love you," he replied. And he did. So much. "I love that Baby is between us like this."

"It _is _nice," she said sleepily. "But soon, my belly will be so big, you'll have to reach over it to kiss me. How will we make love then? _I can't stop wanting to make love with you_." She must have been on the verge of sleep, because she would never have spoken so plainly otherwise.

"We'll manage," he said, kissing her shoulder. "We always have...You know, you're really starting to be good at this wife business, trusting me, depending on me, letting me take you on holiday, and comforting me while wearing that white robe."

"Mmm," she replied, and he knew he was in real trouble then because she wasn't speaking in full sentences. "Taking you to dinners you don't want to go to..." She sighed and cuddled closer, half asleep already.

"Here, my darling." He lifted her off of him and laid her next to him, close enough that they shared the same pillow. He spooned against her, both of them naked, resting his hand on her belly.

She sighed softly.

_This was easy–in the best way._

* * *

><p>Edith did not want to be here. It was hard to be here.<p>

She did not want to be in this lovely sitting room, on the divan, in her parents' home, pretending to smile when she wanted to sneer and snarl and scream at _the unfairness of it all._ They were waiting for the Bransons and for Granny and so Edith had to suffer sitting in this room with Mary and Mary's family and her parents who seemed more nervous than she'd ever seen them. _Are they worried I will tear my hair out and run out of the house screaming? _Edith wondered. _Do they think I will steal my sister's child from her womb?_

Though her husband was across the room, she could feel his nerves as well; he wanted to ease her discomfort and pain but did not know how. _Maybe it is too soon, _he'd suggested the day before. _We could have dinner here and then go for a drive. _Edith took his hand, the one that still worked, and pressed it to her cheek. _It will be fine, _she murmured with a confidence she did not feel, while wondering _why is it we always lie to the people we love most? _

_Oh, this is hard, _Edith thought, as she worried the fabric of her dress between her fingers. _This is so very hard!_

Mary sat with her little family on the divan across from Edith. It was so strange to see Grace, the perfect miniature of Mary in looks–the dark hair, nearly ebony, the brown eyes like melted chocolate–though Grace had a sweetness that Edith never remembered in Mary.

Maybe when she was that small she smiled and sang and cuddled, but as far as Edith could remember Mary had always seemed to have an eyebrow raised and her chin tilted stubbornly up. Edith could not deny that Grace was adorable–her chatter, her carefully spoken words so that you could see her brain working so hard to form them until they came out of her mouth with exaggerated lips and mouth. Edith could also see that the girl was doted on, that everything about Mary softened when she looked at her daughter–but Edith did not want to dwell on that; she could not.

She also could not dwell on the growing protrusion beneath Mary's dress. Edith already knew the ending of that story. That baby would be born awake and screaming, arms flailing, legs kicking, eyes open. She knew this the way some women know their favorite recipe. Mary would be Countess, Matthew would be Earl, their daughters would be Ladies, and their son (for surely they would have a son) would be the next Earl.

Edith remembered hearing Granny read the letter Mary wrote, the one that said she was leaving and did not want to be found. Edith's first thought had been: _oh_,_ it's so easy for Mary to do whatever she pleases! _When Granny finished reading, everyone seemed to talk at once, except for Edith who felt one clear, pure emotion: relief. _Finally, _she had thought, _finally you are gone and I am free. _Even as Edith had thought that, she had realized that she'd bound herself to Mary instead of the other way around. Her hatred, her bitterness towards Mary barely made a dent in Mary's armor, but it seemed to make Edith wilt from the inside. It was so exhausting, so hard, to hate someone whom you also loved. Then Edith had married Sir Antony and for the first time her father began to pay attention to her; she was the only one who hadn't left him.

Sometimes she thought about the weeks before Mary's goodbye letter had been read–how quiet her sister had been, how she had not arched her eyebrow or tilted her chin or responded to Edith's quips, as if something inherently _Mary _was broken inside of her sister. Mary was a pale version of the sister, the horrible, awful sister she'd once been. But Edith never mentioned that.

All the while Sybil was writing Edith letters. She would explain how things were coming along in their home, and then about her pregnancy, and then about Robbie. But in every letter to Edith she worried, fretted about Mary. _Where is she, Edith? I think of her every night and I worry all the time. It isn't like her at all. Where is she?_

Edith had only written back, _I don't know. _

Because it wasn't hard at all to let Mary go.

Edith did not want to be here, sitting on this divan, watching the little family across from her. But her mother had pleaded and Sir Antony did not yet know how to say no to Cora's fluttering hands and guilt-drenched smiles. So she was here, waiting for dinner to be served so she could return home and remove this awful fictitious smile, so she could climb into bed and ignore her husband's worrying glances. _Are you all right? _he would ask. She would say, _Of course. _It was the first lie she ever told him. It tasted bitter in her mouth but it was necessary. It was easier than she expected and it frightened her, how lying could be so easy, especially since everything else since that awful day seemed so hard.

Grace was dressed in a petal pink confection with a giant bow she kept untying despite Mary's directions not to. "Gracie," Mary said at last, though patience marked her tone, "Please. You only need to sit still for only a bit longer and then we will go in to eat. We have to wait for Robbie." Grace kicked her feet in her patent leather shoes, clearly bored. It made Edith want to smile, really smile, because she was an adorable girl, but then Edith remembered that she had no adorable boy and she could not smile at all.

"Eat?" Grace replied earnestly, her smile sweet as spun sugar. "Cream."

Edith heard Mary's indulgent response: "No, not ice cream, darling. Something good for you. But I am sure Mrs. Patmore has made something delicious for dessert."

"Yum," Gracie replied and scooted down off the divan in a very unladylike fashion. Edith saw her bloomers and wanted to smile, genuinely again, but couldn't, because Gracie belonged to Mary and Mary did not deserve any smiles.

Then Grace was walking towards Edith. "Eee," she chirped, lifting her arms to be held. Edith did not quite know what to do and Grace seemed to understand so she struggled to make her way up on the divan all on her own. She sat next to Edith, as no one else had, and smoothed out her skirt, a gesture she'd seen her mother do. She touched Edith's arm, begging for attention. "Baby," she said happily. "Woof!"

Mary moved to the chair closest to the divan. "She has a dog," Mary explained quickly. "She named her Baby. It's completely ridiculous, if you ask me."

_I didn't. _

Edith wished Mary had stayed across the room. It was harder for Edith to enjoy the child this way. She forced herself to look at Grace. "You have a dog named Baby?" she asked. Grace nodded vigorously. "What does Baby look like?" Grace looked up at her quizzically. She pursed her lips, trying to think of words Grace would know. "Is she yellow?" Edith asked, "like this?" She pointed to a part of her dress and Grace shook her head. Then, a smile lit her face. She pointed to her own hair. "Baby is black?" Edith asked.

Grace scrunched up her nose as she struggled with the new word. "Bl-ack. Yes! Baby!"

Edith could not deny that this conversation was the easiest she'd experienced so far this evening. Grace had no expectations of her; Grace did not look at her with sad eyes. "And what do you and Baby like to do?"

"Play," Grace replied. And then she put her hands near her face, stuck out her tongue, and began to pant like a dog. Edith laughed, a real, true, laugh, and did not notice when everyone in the room stopped to look at her.

"And does Baby give you kisses?" Edith asked.

"Yes!" Gracie bounced on to her knees, mimicking Baby's licking tongue. Then she reached up and pressed a kiss to Edith's cheek. "Lalou, Eee," she added, and Edith felt tears in the back of her throat. This admission from Grace had nothing to do with sympathy or pity; it was simply because Edith had been willing to ask about Baby, the dog. Edith wanted to return the sentiment, because truly, after this easy conversation, she did love Grace and was thankful for her. Grace was easy.

But then Grace leaned forward and put her hand on Edith's ever-deflating belly. "Baby?" she asked, as she had so many times before, her eyes wide on Edith's face, a smile on her face."Baby, Baby–"

Grace was unable to utter the third _baby _because Edith, without thinking, grabbed that little hand and slapped it.

The room went still. Grace was too shocked even to cry–for a moment–only looking up at Edith in shock and betrayal before she began to wail, holding her red hand against her chest.

It was not the slap a mother might give to a child who was misbehaving, a tap of warning, a sting of pain. No, this was the kind of slap a woman might give a man who took certain liberties. This was a slap filled with anger and pain, a slap meant for a grown man, not for a child, and it immediately caused a welt on Gracie's skin.

Mary picked her daughter up as quickly as she could and began to walk the room with her. She tried to soothe her but Grace wailed for her papa, holding her hand to her chest. And Matthew went to them after a particularly withering look towards Edith, and took the little girl in his arms.

"It's all right, my darling," he whispered to the girl. He said it over and over again and would go on saying it, Edith knew, until Grace believed him, until it stopped hurting.

Edith closed her eyes: when would it stop hurting? Her baby. Her boy.

No one would look at her. No one spoke. Gracie's wails, clearly not exaggerated, filled the room. Her husband would not even look at Edith.

She wondered if they were thinking, _She did not deserve to be a mother._

Finally, Mary sat on the divan again. She spoke in that authoritative tone that could cut through a room, cut through the crying of her own child: "I'd like to speak to Edith alone. Please." Their mother opened her mouth like a guppy but ultimately agreed. Their father was watching Grace and Matthew, but everyone filed out. Finally, even her husband left Edith.

She was alone with Mary.

Mary would not make this easy.

She knew she deserved every bit of Mary's anger and cutting barbs. She knew she deserved more than that. Still, Edith did not want to be here, in this lovely room with the sister she loathed and loved, who would surely cut her verbally into bits for laying a hand on her beloved daughter, Grace.

Mary sat quietly for as long as she could. She wanted Edith to look her in the eye but Edith's eyes were on the floor; she was completely still, and, as always, another person's stillness broke Mary's heart because she knew what that kind of stillness cost a person. It had cost Mary a great deal. Perhaps it cost Edith even more.

It was not an easy thing to be so still.

A part of Mary was viciously angry with Edith–not for hitting Grace, but for hitting Grace when it was so clear that it was Mary she wanted to hurt. In New York, Mary had lain in bed plotting ways she could protect Grace from ever being hurt. Eventually she'd realized her plans were impossible. Still, Mary would have done _anything_ to prevent Grace's first brutality–by her aunt, no less.

It would be hard to forgive her.

And yet.

_And yet._

Edith was so still and no matter how long Mary waited, Mary knew her sister would not meet her eyes because she was ashamed. What an awful word. It could destroy a life. Mary knew that better than anyone. And just as she could not bear for Gretchen, another woman,, to feel shame, she could certainly not bear for her own sister to live with the weight of shame either.

Mary remembered the little sister with the duck down hair, the sister who had laid her head in Mary's lap and wept for a pony she did not know. She could still feel the weight of Edith's son in her arms, a boy with that same duck down hair, those perfect ears, the long lashes over closed eyes that would never open.

It was hard to get down on her knees in front of Edith and touch her sister's knee so Edith had to meet Mary's eyes. "I'd like to say some things, some hard things" Mary began, her breath trembling out, "I want to apologize for how mean I was to you when we were younger, how I belittled you and your choices, how I made you feel like nothing until maybe...maybe you believed it. I am very sorry for that."

Edith's eyes were so confused. She did not know what to say. What _was _Mary doing? This was not how this conversation was supposed to go.

But Mary had more to say. The words loosened in her chest and suddenly it wasn't as hard. "I also want to apologize for my interference at the Garden Party with Sir Antony. That was very wrong as well."

"But I–I..." Edith began, but she could not finish because she had begun to cry. She felt as if she was thread, unspooling, unraveling before the eyes of last person she would want to have witness her undoing.

"Yes, you had written to the Turkish embassy revealing that Pamuk died in my bed and I was angry," Mary admitted. "I want you to know I forgive you for that. Completely."

Edith shook her head. "I don't deserve that; I ruined your life."

Mary pressed her lips together and reached for her sister's hand. Edith did not hold on, but Mary held her hand anyway. It was becoming easier and easier to let this burden go."I made my own choices, Edith. And, regardless, I forgive you. I don't deserve to be forgiven for what I've done to you, either. But I'm forgiving you."

Mary took a huge breath and blew it out. This was a bit harder. This was the hardest. "Finally, I forgive you for hitting my child."

Edith shook her head, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs. She could bear Mary's reproof but not this. _Not this._

But Mary pressed her fingers into Edith's hand. "I forgive you because I know you're angry, not at her, but just angry. I know what it's like to just be angry. And I know you're angry with me, too. But I forgive you."

"I slapped her," Edith whispered. "I slapped her. When she'd been nothing but sweet to me. There is probably a welt. Her hand is probably swollen."

Mary nodded. Oh, this was so much harder. She felt split between the woman–the sister–in front of her, and the daughter she loved more than anything in the world. But she knew, she believed, that forgiving Edith would only make her a better mother, when it came down to it. "I forgive you, Edith."

"_Stop saying that!_" Edith cried. "Stop it!"

"I can't," Mary murmured. "I forgive you. And I hope...I hope you can forgive yourself, not just for Gracie, but for...for Patrick. Because there is no guilt there, no shame. You did nothing wrong."

"Then why?" Edith asked, brokenly. "Then why is he dead?"

Mary remembered the small library, the weeks afterwards when Granny had tried to tell her it was not her fault and how hard that was to believe, how even now it was still sometimes hard to believe. _Why did it happen in the first place?_ It was a question to which she still did not have the answer. "I don't know; I wish I did," Mary whispered now to her sister, to the baby with the duck down hair, to the grown woman who had slapped her child. "But I won't feed you a clichè either. I only know that losing Patrick was _not _your fault."

"I should not have hit Grace," Edith said at last through wracking sobs. It was the hardest she'd cried since she'd delivered the baby boy who would never open his eyes.

Mary moved to sit beside her and hold her. Edith laid her head in her big sister's lap, just as she had with the pony (but this was so much more than a pony), and Mary stroked her hair. "I forgive you, Edith" she said. "I forgive you." She repeated it until Edith stopped crying. She had to say it many times. Until Edith believed it. Until it was easy to believe it.

* * *

><p>Ultimately, once Edith was calm, she asked to be left alone for a few minutes to collect herself, and Mary rose and went to the door. "I haven't said this to you in a very long time," she said with her hand on the doorknob, the door slightly ajar. "But I love you, very much. I always have, even when I was horrible to you. I want to be a better sister now. I want to love you better."<p>

Then she stepped through to find Matthew on the other side, apparently eavesdropping. Mary closed the door completely. "What are–"

She stopped when he grabbed her arm. It didn't hurt, but the look in his eyes–the anger, the betrayal, the disappointment–did hurt a great deal. "How could you _say those things_ to her?"

She sighed and her body wilted a little. This was a discussion for home. She felt unbearably relieved after her conversation with her sister but also unbearably tired. "Where is Gracie?"

"With your father," he said, his voice edged with bitterness. "He took her and told me to intervene so the two of you would not come to blows." Mary had to pull her arm from his to go to the foot of the stairs where Grace sat in her father's lap, some ice on her little hand. She could hear him murmuring but could not distinguish the words, and she remembered him, in his wet and heavy suit, pressing his cheek to her hair, and telling her she was safe. Mary wanted to cry for so many reasons but the tears would not come, not when Matthew was vibrating with anger beside her.

"Papa," Mary said as she came nearer. When he looked up at her, his face was white with worry. _Was that how he'd looked on the beach?_ "Thank you for taking care of her for us."

"It's nothing," he replied and she wanted to say: _don't you see? It's everything. _"I thought it best for Matthew to referee."

"There was no need," she replied. "Edith is collecting herself. But I...am very tired, and I think we will go home now. We'll see you on Sunday for Robbie's birthday." He nodded and held Gracie up to her, but the little girl shook her head. She wanted Papa.

The walk back to Crawley House was terse and silent. And very, very hard.

But they had their rules. They would not discuss this in front of Grace.

Gracie had fallen asleep on Matthew's shoulder and when they entered their home, Isobel stood up, noting immediately from the expressions on their faces that something had gone amiss (had she expected differently?), but she did not ask. Her son's face was hard, stony with suppressed rage. Her daughter (for that is how she thought of Mary) looked completely drained.

So the trio–if one could call them that, with Matthew so angry at Mary–walked up the stairs. Matthew went into Grace's room and, before Mary could follow, he shut the door in her face.

She wanted to beat her hands against the door. She wanted to cry out.

_Oh, damn you, Matthew Crawley! Loving you is awfully hard right now._

But she only went to their bedroom, changed, and climbed into her blankets and covers. She did not have the energy for a fight.

Apparently, neither did he, because it was over an hour before he came into the room and when he did, when he climbed into bed, Mary caught a whiff of brandy. Some memory, long suppressed, struggled to surface and Mary fought a losing battle to keep it in that box, the box of the small library. It was hard to forget. Impossible really.

"I can't believe you forgave her like that," he said harshly once all the lights were out. The darkness made it easier to be mean. "_I can't believe you said that after what she did to our daughter. _I thought you–"

"Be careful," she warned him. "Don't you _dare_ mention my skills as a mother or how much you think I do or do not love Grace. You have _no idea what you are talking about_."

"I think I do," he retorted, emboldened by the two short glasses of brandy he'd drunk. "You write all these letters about how you would do anything to protect her and then you just–"

"Stop," Mary cried and sat up. "Don't say anymore. Edith is my sister. She is in pain and _you don't understand_."

"Stop saying I don't understand. I do understand." He began to raise his voice. "I heard how hard she slapped _our _child; I heard the way _our _child cried. I don't need to _understand _anything other than that."

"Do you think it was _easy _for me to forgive her? What do you want, Matthew?" she went on passionately, rustling the covers as she sat up in a flurry of movement. "An eye for an eye? You're right. Let's go find her child and slap him." She was breathing heavily, trying to ignore the barely there memory that wafted her way every time he spoke. "But we can't, can we? And you weren't there. You didn't hold him. You didn't see the way she threw her arm over her eyes. So just, please, _shut up_!"

"Shut up? Shut up?" he cried. He too sat up. He took her by the arms again, his face close to hers and she could smell his breath and that memory...it was returning and she could not stop it. "Shut up? How dare you forget to _mention _that it was Edith who wrote to the embassy? That it was Edith who revealed the secret about Pamuk to the world?"

It was too much–the brandy, the talk of Pamuk, the way he took her by the arms, though he was not rough. But still it all proved to be too much for her.

She wrestled herself away from him and he was so shocked by the violence with which she did so that he let her go immediately. She was crying and her face looked tortured. "Please," she whimpered pathetically, a complete turnaround from moments earlier. "Please. Stop. Don't." By then he wasn't touching her at all, and though his head was fuzzy from the brandy, he knew that look on her face, the one she wore after she woke from a nightmare, the one she had worn while she sitting in the small library drinking lemonade.

"Mary," he whispered, and reached to stroke her hair but she cringed away. She'd always said he'd never done anything to remind her of Richard but he could see, now, he had done exactly that.

"Please. Stop. Don't." It was so strange to know that this was Matthew who she trusted and loved yet she was remembering Richard, pushing her against the bookshelves, his after dinner drink on his breath, the anger in his touch, in his threats. When he'd kissed her to cover her desperate scream for help, she'd tasted that drink and wanted to retch.

This would always be hard. She knew it and she hated it. But it would never be easy to remember the small library.

Matthew was watching her and she couldn't stand it. She really couldn't stand his eyes on her, how they warred between patience and anger. So she tumbled out of her blankets and walked, limped really, towards the bathroom where she closed the door and locked it. She turned on the water of the sink and the tub and she sat on the cool floor and she sobbed. She wanted to be still but her whole body trembled.

It was too hard to be still.

It was Isobel who came for her later, who helped her to her feet and poured her into bed. She stroked her hair and murmured soothing things that made no sense. Mary did not know where Matthew was but she did not want him and he must have known that. "I'll stay here as long as you'd like," Isobel stated calmly. Mary believed her. _She'll stay; She'll stay. _

"It's so hard," Mary murmured to her husband's mother just before she fell asleep, "being married."

* * *

><p>Matthew stole a letter and went downstairs to his official study, where he poured himself a third small glass of brandy. He hated the way it tasted but that was neither here nor there, not tonight. He sat down to read, feeling very self-righteous over the argument and terribly upset that he'd done something to unlock a memory of Richard. He read:<p>

_Dearest Granny,_

_Grace and I are so glad to know that your chest cold has finally left you. We are happy to know that you are well, of course, first and foremost. Also, we are content knowing you can no longer hold your "poor health" over our heads, guilting us into coming back. Though you must know how much we love you, how much we long to see you, and yet how impossible it all is!_

_Oh, Granny. Sometimes people change. Please don't ever change. You are too wonderful just as you are._

_It has been a stressful few days here. Grace has been restless and cranky (and she is normally as sweet as can be) and I knew that her first tooth must be coming in. I let her gnaw on my finger. I could feel those little bits of teeth, just there, beneath her skin and I thought how much it must hurt, to have pieces of bone trying to pierce the skin and how I could do nothing, that of course, Gracie needed teeth and so of course, she had to endure the pain, and I thought again how impossible it is, mothering a child you love so much._

_I worry about _everything. _I worry that someday when she goes to school, she won't have friends because she doesn't have a father, that other mothers won't want their children near her. I worry that she will pay the consequence for my decisions and I don't think I could bear that. More than that, I worry what it will be like for her, when she is old enough to know: _I don't have a father. _Not just that she will feel different than everyone else but that somehow, the relationship between a father and a daughter is so very important and without it, she will always feel something is missing, a hole I cannot fill, that I could do everything right (which I won't) and still she will feel a lack. _

_Sometimes I wonder what Papa would have done if I had gone to him and told him what happened._

_But I couldn't. You know I couldn't. I didn't know how to even put one foot in front of the other afterwards. Even now, I don't see a way to make it work in my head. Even now, there will be a heart_-_stopping moment where I am reminded of it all. I can't speak of it and I couldn't then, especially to Papa. It was and remains too hard for me. I am not brave._

_But I remember when Papa gave me Diamond. I remember he said he was proud of what a rider I had become. I remember when he told me not to marry Richard. _I want a good man for you_, he said. _

_Oh, who cares about me? I want only a man who will love _her_, who will tell _her _he's proud of her. It counts more, coming from a father, I think. At least it did for me. _

_What will I say to her when she asks me: _Mama, who is my father?

_The small library is in a box. I dare not remove the lid. But how do you say to a little girl: _in my mind, you have no father. You are singularly mine._ That won't make sense to her. But she can never, ever know about the small library. So, I ask you again, what will I say?_

_Do I lie? Do I dream a man up? Do I create a love story for her? Did he die in a fire while saving a family? What did he look like? I don't know. I really don't. These are impossible questions and they plague me at night, when I cannot sleep. Though she is years away from asking these questions I feel as if it will take me years to think of the right answers. What is your opinion, Granny?_

_Why is it so hard? Answering these questions? Keeping the secret? Forgetting the memory of it? Me being a good mother? What shall I do? You must be honest with me. I won't have clever platitudes from you. _

_All my love,_

_Mary_

When he finished, he pushed the brandy aside and felt like a bloody fool. Then he stood and walked up to his mother's room, sending someone else to comfort his wife when he could not.

* * *

><p>When Mary woke, Matthew was beside her, waiting for her. <em>You're always waiting for me, <em>she thought. "I'm sorry," he began quietly. "I don't know what I did to remind you of_ him _but I'm not completely ignorant and I saw how afraid you were of me."

She sat up. She remembered what she'd told Isobel: _It is so hard to be married. _"No," she said softly. "Well, it was only the liqueur on your breath. It just triggered a memory for me. An unpleasant one."

"It wasn't only the brandy, Mary," he retorted with self loathing. "It was the smell of the brandy combined with my anger and my hands on you."

"Don't say that," she replied, a bit desperately. "Don't say your hands were _on _me, like you were hurting me. You weren't. People argue. We were arguing. You were angry at me. You're allowed to be angry with me. But you aren't to blame for my memories."

He was quiet for a moment. He wanted to reach for her but at the same time, he did not even want to look at her. "It bothered me, hearing you ask for her forgiveness, and then telling her that you forgave her"–he paused and she would have rushed to fill the empty space but he kept his mouth open to hold her off–"I was angry over what had been done to Gracie. And I was very angry that you never told me that Edith was the one to write to the Turkish Embassy because don't you realize? If she hadn't done that, you would have never been in that small library."

"Oh, Matthew!" she cried. Suddenly it didn't matter, this whirlwind of angst and sadness and anger. She crawled towards him and ignored the stiffness in his arms, the hardness of his jaw. She sat on his lap and took his face in her hands. This part was hard and easy. "That's not true. Because even if no one ever found out, Pamuk _did _die in my bed and the shame of that and would still have kept me from accepting your proposal."

"But people wouldn't have known," he continued passionately. "You wouldn't have felt forced to look for a husband in someone like Carlisle."

"All right," she said calmly, although she'd begun to cry. "Let's say you're right. Let's say the small library is directly related to the letter Edith wrote. I forgot to tell you. I forgot it happened honestly. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, that you found out that way. But Matthew, if there had been no small library, there would be no Grace and I cannot..." her voice broke. "You see...how complicated it all is. I don't know if you are actually angry at _Edith._ Maybe you are. But–"

"What?" he asked, leaning his forehead towards hers as soon as her voice broke.

"For so long it was so hard for me to say this: the _only_ person responsible for what happened in the small library is Richard Carlisle," she said with a calm she did not feel. "Please," she wet her lips. "Do not displace your anger at him towards Edith."

"I hate him," Matthew whispered viciously.

"So do I," she replied just as passionately.

"And I know you want this to be a family of forgiveness, of grace, and that's why you said those things to Edith, but if you ever expect me to forgive him for what he did to you..." He shook his head. "I won't."

She pressed her lips to his, to his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his jaw, his chin. "I don't expect that. But...don't let it eat away at you, Matthew. Hating him doesn't hurt him. It only hurts you. I know. Believe me, I know."

"Mary–"

"Let me finish," she pleaded. "At the same time, I think I know a little of what you're feeling. Remember that awful P. Gordon character? I wanted to kill him. I was vicious towards him. I was so much more angry at him than you were. Because I loved you and he had wronged you."

"I remember," Matthew said, brushing her hair off of her shoulders.

"It was worse than if he had wronged me, his wronging you and I know we never talk about it and I know you would never say so, but I think you are angrier at Carlisle than I am, I think you hate him more than I do...that in some ways it's worse for you, harder for you, because you are angry on my behalf."

He shook his head, pressed a kiss to her temple. "No. It happened to _you_. Who cares how I feel?"

"I care!" she cried. "I'm your wife and I care. I'm sorry we haven't talked about this before now. Because when I have a nightmare, it's awful for me but I think, perhaps, it's more awful for you. Don't shake your head," she continued. "Because I am your wife and I know what it feels like when _you _have a nightmare. I know the helplessness and the rage and the pain on your behalf. Is it the same for you? You've never said. Is it the same for you?"

"It doesn't matter what it's like for me," Matthew replied. "You are what matters and it happened to you."

She swallowed, she moved closer, laid her hand against his heart. How could something be so hard and so easy at the same time? "But it also happened to you. You found me. You saw. And now you're married to me–a woman who has nightmares and memories that trigger outbursts, a woman whose baggage you took on, a woman who doesn't always make it easy for you."

"Mary–"

She kissed him again. "I know what you're trying to do. You don't want me to think that _your_ pain over what happened to me can compare to _my_ pain over it." He nodded, held her cheeks in his hands. "But...I think we have been remiss not to at least acknowledge your pain over it, too...It's not the same, I know, it's not. But if it makes you feel better, it pains me when you are in pain, when you have a bad dream. It's a different type of pain but it's there."

He nodded. "Sometimes...It's very hard. I only love you so much, you see."

"I'm so sorry," she murmured into his ear, "for not seeing, or talking about this before. But please...I feel like we should be able to talk about this. I want to."

"I'm very angry at Edith," he admitted, and this time she did not tell him to shut up. "Maybe it's not right but I am, for that letter."

"All right."

"And I know you want us to be role models for the children when it comes to grace and forgiveness, but I am angry with her. And I need to be angry with her. At least for a day."

"Oh, Matthew." She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Of course, for you it's as if the letter was written yesterday. Of course you're angry."

He pressed his cheek to hers. "But I won't stay angry, I promise. I'll...find a way to forgive because I love you. And for the children. And because she is your sister."

"I love you," she whispered. "I love you so much."

It wasn't easy–marriage, loving one another–but no matter how hard it was, it was somehow, always, worth it in the end.

"Why?" he asked plainly. "Why would you when I shut you out of our daughter's room and come to our bed smelling of brandy and say cruel things?"

"I love you," she repeated. "Do you stop loving me when I am mean to you? When I shut you out?" He shook his head, pulled her closer. "That's the way we love one another. It is not dependent on behavior. And that's the way we love the children too. All right?"

He nodded and when he kissed her, thoroughly this time, he had never been more aware that this was all a miracle, sitting on this bed, with one child between them and the other down the hall. If she'd accepted him, at the Garden Party, none of this would have been possible; they would not have been able to love one another in such an unconditional way, and when her hands crept into his hair, he sighed and whispered into her mouth, "I love you so very much," and he'd never meant it more than he did in that moment.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I am exceedingly interested to know your thoughts on this chapter. Please, oh please, press the review button. I feel like I am running a marathon and my body is giving out (or my fingers and brain). Xo._


	41. Chapter 41

_A/N: First some random questions to answer, SnidgetandCo pointed out that in 1923 the entail law was over thrown in England. She was curious about when this story takes place. Right now, it is the summer of 1922. That said, even if the entail was smashed, this family's problems go beyond the law. I also have read some of Julian Fellowes thoughts on this (if you're interested). For example, yes, women can now inherit and the entail can be passed to them. But what they STILL cannot have is the title. His own wife experienced this. There was no male heir and so the titled died with the last male instead of her becoming a countess. All that to say, it is a complicated issue. It's a complicated issue in a complicated family. Even if, after 1924, Matthew passes everything down to Grace; the title of Earl would go to any sons (if there are any). Grace will never be Countess of Grantham. Much as Mary, before falling in love with Matthew, would never have been either. Okay that was long. But I really believe this family has issues beyond the title, the land, the entail. _

_Also, I have a few reviews to answer still. And I will do so right after this. Please know that if you have an account, and allow for PMs, I will write to you, always. But if you don't have an account, I can't :( It makes me a bit sad because some of you are hilarious. Okay this author's note is long and about to get longer. _

_I was shocked at your response to Edith slapping Grace and Mary's response to Edith. I thought everyone would side with Matthew. The majority of you realized it was hard for Mary but were touched by what she gave Edith (because what she gave Edith truly was a gift). The other side said things like "my gut reaction was what Edith did was not OKAY". I won't take a side in this. What I will say is, this story is called Grace, and that does not only refer to cute little Gracie Girl. Grace is a choice. It is something unearned, undeserved. Giving grace is **HARD. **__But I think it is beautiful and difficult and messy all at the same time. _I_ guarantee you Mary wanted to claw her sister's eyes out; that was her "gut reaction" too. I tried to show how hard it was for Mary to say and mean those things to Edith. Matthew felt differently. But there are two differences between Matthew and Mary. One is a mother and one is a father. The other is that Matthew was not in the room when Edith lost Patrick. That bath will haunt Mary for the rest of her life. Like she said to Matthew, Mary wishes they could do an eye for an eye, that there was a baby to take it out on, but they can't. They already have more than Edith. I hope that makes sense. I just wanted to explain; but I am not taking sides. Finally, thank you to everyone who told me not to burn out...and to **Faeyero**–we had fun with this one, didn't we? _

_PS If you made it through that Author's Note, well done._

* * *

><p>Chapter Forty One<p>

Sybil woke early on the morning of her son's birthday. She lay awkwardly on her side, a pillow shoved beneath her massive belly, her husband's hand loose on her hip like an afterthought. Sometimes it still surprised her that they were married with a two year old and another who would be welcomed, quite literally, any day now. Sometimes it still surprised her that she could look at him and _know _that he would be the person she could count on for the entirety of her life. Wasn't that strange? Wasn't that wonderful?

Last night, she'd put on the nightgown Mary had given her and Tom had looked up from his book. "Really?" he'd asked. "Not that I'm complaining, but you've been so uncomfortable lately and I...I don't want to add to it."

"You won't," she had replied and awkwardly crawled to him, lying on her side so his stomach propping her belly up, and kissed him. "I want you," she had murmured hotly into this mouth. "This baby could come any minute and then I won't be able to have you for _months_." She cupped his cheek, his day's beard a little rough on her hand. "So I'm sorry that I am as big as a whale and probably completely undesirable and I don't know how we are going to accomplish it, but I want to make love with my husband. Do you think you could oblige me?"

"You may be as big as a whale," Tom replied, nibbling at her lips. "But you're not undesirable." He took one of her hands and proved it to her. "Not at all."

It had been awkward, figuring out the logistics, but Tom was her best friend and she did not mind appearing ridiculous before him. Their room was next to Granny's, though, so any laughter had to be hushed, and then later, the moans, long and drawn out, were pressed into the cotton of the sheets instead of the open air.

And that was how Sybil, nine months pregnant, woke naked beside her also naked husband, on her son's second birthday. It was the best sleep she'd had in months, since her gigantic stomach kept her so uncomfortable. Who knew her husband was the cure (and yet nearly nine months ago he'd also been the cause)? She rubbed her belly in slow circles. She knew the babe was running out of room and was just as uncomfortable as Sybil herself was feeling. _We only have to make it through your brother's birthday._

She remembered the night Robbie was born, how her water had broken in the dead of the night, how she'd awakened a panicked Tom. He had run his hand through his hair again and again, his voice growing higher and higher as he'd asked her what to do, what should he do, should he get the doctor, and all the while tried to avoid looking at the giant wet spot on their bed. But the contractions were hitting her awfully hard and awfully quickly and there was rain against the window panes. The woman inside of her, and the nurse as well, knew there wasn't much time.

"Tom," she had reached for his hand. _Hold on to me, I am so afraid. _"I don't think I can wait for the doctor."

"What do you mean?" The end of his question was so high pitched he could have shattered the windows.

"It means," Sybil had said, through gritted teeth, her abdomen rippling with a hard contraction, "that you're going to have to deliver this baby."

His face had blanched. "No," he said. Just _no_. As if that would be enough for the baby to slow down and give him time to call the doctor.

The speed at which the labor was progressing didn't make much sense to Sybil, since this was her first baby. Typically, the labor shouldn't be coming so fast but somehow it was, and she propped herself on the wet bed. "Tom," she had continued calmly. "You need something clean to cut the cord and I'll tell you the rest. Towels," she had added, and he was so happy to have _something to do _that he forgot for a moment, as he bumbled around the house, that she had also said he would be the one to deliver the baby. He did ring for the doctor who said he would be there as soon as he could, but Tom trusted his wife. She was the best at her job. If she said this baby was coming _now_, he believed her.

So she had to talk him through it, as he tried to talk her through the pain. It was only the two of them and the rain on the roof. And then, as if startled, though he had been waiting for it, he had cried, "I can see the head, Sybil. Oh, Jesus." He'd felt a bit woozy but when he'd looked at his wife, his warrior really, but he'd bitten his own cheek to keep from passing out. She'd explained to him, drenched in sweat, that she would push and push and then the baby should slide out and that Tom was to clear the baby's nose and mouth and pat it on the back until the baby made a sound and then knot the cord and cut it. Tom's response, obviously not his best moment, had been: "Jesus Christ, I think I need a drink first."

"If you move, Thomas Branson," Sybil had ground out, panting, "I will kill you just as soon as I deliver this baby all by myself."

The doctor had eventually come, but by then the three Bransons were in bed, the ruined bed linens done away with, the parents cooing over their son on the stripped mattress (perhaps it was a shoddy job but Tom had been in charge of cleanup) . The Doctor's only comment had been, "It's a good thing you're a nurse, Mrs. Branson," but she hadn't heard him, not then, not really. She was busy falling in love with her son, who had her dark hair and tan skin and Tom's bright blue eyes. "You are the most beautiful baby in the whole world," she had told him.

"Handsome," Tom had corrected, and he himself had been a bit teary-eyed, for if there was ever a time for a man to be a sentimental slob it was on the day his first son was born. "He's a little man so he's handsome, not beautiful."

They named the baby Robert as an appeasement towards her father, from whom they had not heard directly. It was an offering, really, (though they would always call their son Robbie): _here, Papa, here is your grandson named for you. Please love him as we do. _

In the end, that had not been enough, which only made Sybil more stubborn to prove to Robbie: _you are enough. You are so much more than we deserve. _

As if reminding her that there would be another Branson soon, this baby shifted in her womb and Tom's hand slipped down to feel the movement and she could feel his smile against her back. "This one's active today," he noted sleepily. "Maybe Robbie and this baby will have the same birthday."

"No," Sybil corrected. "We've had a talk and it won't be today. Today is about Robbie."

"Oh, you had a talk between you, did you?" He laughed a little and his scruff felt delicious against her back. "Did the baby tell you what we're going to call him or her? Since his or her poor, stubborn parents can't agree on a name." The baby kicked his hand; he felt a real foot there. "Jesus, Sybil, I hope it's soon, even if it's not today. You're so bloody uncomfortable. That can't have felt good."

"No," she admitted. He never could stand to see her in any type of pain. "But I'm feeling something else right now, as well."

"Oh?" he asked. "Is the baby pressing on your bladder again?"

"No, you fool." She reached behind her and felt him hard, heavy, and hot in her hand.

"Ignore that," he told her. "You know how I am in the mornings. Besides, we are naked."

She tilted her head back towards him, her eyes heavy lidded with what could only be desire. "What if I don't want to ignore it?"

He grinned. "Sybil, the last time you were pregnant you wouldn't let me even touch you the last month. You're mad."

She squeezed him lightly, ran her fingers along him, as he let out a breath. "Of course I'm mad. I'm pregnant with your child...Well, I want you. Do you want me or not? It could be the last time for months, you know." He didn't bother reminding her that she'd said the same thing the night before.

Later, they lay in the same position, since it was the only possible position for them when she was so large. "Don't move," she asked him.

"All right," he agreed cheerfully, "but if you feel a contraction coming on be sure to tell me because I'd prefer to meet our baby another way than me still inside you."

She giggled. "As for the names...We're never going to agree on a boy's name so we'd better hope it's a girl."

"Then she'll be Margaret–Maggie," he stated. "But what of a middle name?"

Sybil squirmed in his arms a bit. "Mary told me that she chose Violet as a middle name for Grace because even though she wanted Grace to have her own name, the middle name was for someone she admired, someone who had qualities she wanted her daughter to have."

"Well then her name is to be Margaret Mary," Tom said, matter of fact, while Sybil squirmed some more and turned towards him so she could see his face, which was quite difficult and required his help.

"_You know_," she breathed. "You know what happened to her."

"I didn't know if _you_ knew," Tom admitted. "But we can't speak of it to anyone. You know that."

"Of course not." Sybil's eyes went all dewy. Tom could feel, since they were pressed together as closely as her belly allowed, every kick and movement of the baby. "Why _Mary_, then?"

"Because she's strong," Tom said, brushing Sybil's hair back. "Because there is nothing so important to her than the people she loves. Because she not only survived what happened, she thrived. And I want our Maggie to be strong, to love as Mary does–and as you do too, darling–and because I want her to thrive no matter what."

Sybil was crying, which was nothing new, really, not this far along in the pregnancy. She wanted to scream and rage at the injustice done to Mary, to any woman, but there was hope literally between her and Tom, and she knew that Mary would want them to think of that. "Let's surprise her," she whispered. She wanted to kiss him but her belly kept them too far apart. "When she holds Maggie the first time, we'll tell her. And she'll cry and it will be wonderful."

"You Crawleys are so strange, wanting to see each other cry," Tom joked.

She poked him in the shoulder. "I'm a _Branson_, you great fool. And the Irish aren't exactly known for their stoicism. Besides, you know it will mean the world to her."

"So after all this, you've decided it's a girl? Do you know how many fights we could have avoided if you'd decided this months ago? Particularly the one where you beaned me in the head with a spoon?" He kept his voice light. He did not want Sybil to dwell on what had happened to Mary, not nine months along.

"Yes," Sybil grinned. It had been her grin that had him falling in love with her in the first place. "I've decided."

"Well I would appreciate it if you could also decide to wait this time, for Dr. George, before you deliver."

* * *

><p>Tom woke Robbie as Sybil took a cool bath. As soon as the boy's eyes opened, he jumped up in his crib and cried, "Birthday!" which sounded more like <em>birfday<em>,but nonetheless Robbie's point was clear: _Today I am special. _

"Yes, it is. And how old are you today?" Tom asked.

"Two!" Robbie crowed. He hugged his Da and then made a ferocious noise since when Da woke Robbie up that usually meant wrestling.

But alas.

Alas.

Tom felt like a horrible person having to _wrestle_ his son into a lightweight, cream colored suit that his grandmother had insisted he wear, with a festive light blue bow tie. "I'm sorry, boy-o," Robbie murmured, because he was. There was nothing Robbie abhorred more than clothing, except _formal _clothing, and after all it _was_ his birthday.

But Tom, pushing back the resentment, knew that deciding to stay in England longer than planned meant having the birthday party that Cora and Robert wanted. "I'm sorry," he repeated to his son and Robbie, as if the boy could see his father's guilt hanging in the air around his head, stopped wrestling and allowed his father to button the little vest. Tom thought of the rocking horse, still at their house in Dublin, that was to be Robbie's present. No doubt, it cost less than the suit Robbie was now wearing, let alone the gift his grandparents would present to him. Sybil and Tom had left Robbie's birthday present in Ireland, never expecting to stay this long.

Tom leaned down towards his son. "You feel free to roll around in the grass and the dirt as much as you like today, Robbie. No matter what anyone tells you. Be sure to spill some chocolate ice cream on it, too."

The thought of the stupid cream colored suit with grass stains on the knees cheered Tom considerably.

* * *

><p>Mary woke before Matthew, a rarity, and crept out of bed without waking him. She felt very proud of herself as she walked out of the bedroom, missing Matthew's eyes popping open and his grin. Mary woke Gracie and the little girl curled into her chest, as she used to do months ago. She was not jealous of how Gracie always wanted Papa, but it was still nice to know she was needed. "Baby," Gracie croaked sleepily. So Mary whistled for the dog, who hopped up and down at the the bottom of the stairs in a way that had Mary wondering if she would piddle. But then when Mary called her up the forbidden stairs, the dog's excitement made her so clumsy that even Mary had to laugh. The three of them went back to the master bedroom and climbed into bed with Matthew. "You mustn't wake Papa," Mary whispered, which of course meant that Gracie would. Baby was big enough now that she needed no help in jumping onto the bed. Mary rolled her eyes.<p>

"Guess what today is?" Mary asked Gracie, as the girl curled like a kitten on her father's chest and he stroked her hair.

"Rob," Gracie murmured.

"Yes, it's Robbie's birthday! He's two years old today!" Mary said cheerfully and then added through her teeth, "And Grandmama has picked out a _beautiful_ dress for you to wear."

Gracie sat up. She raised her eyebrow at her mother. Dresses from Grandmama meant that she had to sit quietly and not move.

Mary smoothed her daughter's hair back, "You can play in it. You can run and play and get as dirty as you like. I promise."

This pleased Gracie immensely.

"You know, you'll be two soon, as well," Mary continued as she saw Matthew frown. "In a few months. You'll be a big girl then."

"No," Gracie insisted. "Me. Baby."

"Yes, of course," Matthew said into her hair very seriously. "You will always be our baby."

Later, while Baby and Grace played tug of war with a hank of rope on their bedroom floor, Matthew moved to Mary and held her. His voice was full of anguish. "Do you realize I don't even know when her birthday is?"

"It's October sixth." She kissed him so deeply, he almost forgot to feel guilty. "Please don't feel badly about not knowing it. You can't blame yourself for things that aren't your fault." Then she kissed him again, skimming her hand beneath his pajama top.

"You'd better watch yourself," he warned with a smile. "Our daughter's in the room. You're playing with fire."

She arched an eyebrow and smiled wickedly. "Oh, is that what I was doing?" Her hand crept up his chest and then down again, running along his waistband as if debating her options. She climbed over him, a bit clumsily with her belly, and went to his desk. She shuffled through the letters, frowning until she found the one she was looking for.

_Dear Granny,_

_Today I am one year old! I can walk all by myself. I know how to shake my head "no." I can feed myself. I laugh and smile. I can wave hello and bye-bye. I like to watch the ducks and feed them old bread. I still like to be rocked to sleep, even though I am practically a grown up now. I make noises with my mouth but nothing quite discernible as English yet. _

_Today, Mama made a cake (actually Mrs. Larsen made it but Mama frosted it, all by herself) and she let me have as much as I wanted. It was my first taste of sugar and I loved it so much that somehow frosting got everywhere–including my hair. Mama laughed and laughed. And so did Mrs. Larsen, who completed our birthday trio. Mama and Mrs. Larsen helped me blow out my single candle. Mama made a wish for me._

_Mama gave me a stuffed duck, and a stuffed horse that reminded her of Diamond, her horse back home. I love animals, you know. Going to the zoo is one of my favorite things."I can't believe you're one!" Mama told me. She even wept a little during bath time and I pretended she had soap in her eyes. _

_As we rocked, she told me of the day I was born, how it was sunny and warm, even in October, how autumn had always been her favorite season and now it would forever be so. She told me that having me, the labor, was hard work but that she would do it a thousand times over, if it meant that she would be my mama. She told me that she was scared, before I made my entrance, that she would not know how to be a mama, until they laid me on her chest, crying, and she knew that I needed her and she promised she would be the best mama she could be. Then she named me Grace, because I was the gift she did not deserve. And Violet, after you, my wonderful great granny, the strongest woman she knows._

_She tells me fairy tales before I fall asleep but the princess always rescues herself. "I want you to be strong. And brave," she tells me. "And happy!"_

_Thank you so much for the beautiful pink dress you sent. I wore it on my birthday and I am sending you a photograph of me in it. Mama made me take it off before we ate the cake so I will wear it again sometime soon. Thank you also for the stuffed puppy. Mama must have told you how much I love dogs! And for the candy, which I cheerfully devoured. Thank you also for your beautiful card which Mama has already put in the special book she has for me. Mama cried when she read it (Mama cried a lot on my birthday, but always with a smile on her face). Finally, your gift of the pearl necklace is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Though Mama thinks it is an outrageous gift for a one year old baby who won't be able to wear them for years; she recognized them as an heirloom immediately. She told me that you wore them when you married my great grandfather and that you loved him very much. Mama cried a bit more. She could not seem to help it. She loves you very much. She talks about you all the time, you know. She wants me to know you, as she knows you. _

_Thank you for making my first birthday unforgettable. You are the very best, just as Mama always says. She promises that somehow, someway, she will find a way for us to be together. She tries not to cry when she tells me this. _

_Well, goodbye then. Can you believe I am one year old? _

_Love,_

_Grace Violet_

Mary wept as she read over Matthew's shoulder, and she could feel his anxious breaths, the bittersweetness of this letter, as he tried not to cry as well. How lonely she'd been when she wrote that letter! Of course, she hadn't known that then. She was the happiest she had ever been in her life, but still alone.

Matthew tugged on her hand until she acquiesced to sit on his lap. "I wish I had been there," he said softly, into her ear. They could hear Grace giggling over Baby.

She turned her face towards his, covered the hand he'd placed on her belly with one of her own. "I wish you could have been there too," she murmured. "But the fact that you'll be here this October sixth? That means everything to me. And to her. You know that."

Baby jumped on the bed. Grace launched herself at her parents. "Papa!" she cried, because if Mama could sit on his lap then she wanted to sit there too. So they started the day, the little family cuddled as close as they could be. When Baby crawled closer to Mary and began to lick her toes, Mary could not bear to break the perfect contentment she felt by kicking the hideous beast in the face.

* * *

><p>Cora wanted the day to be perfect.<p>

This should have been the first indication that Cora would not go to bed happy that night.

Sybil and Tom remained at the the Dower House and claimed they would stay there until they went back home. Matthew was probably still angry at her. And Mary...well, Mary would always be Mary. Cora could never count on Mary to behave. Worst yet, Edith had sent her regrets _through _Mary. She'd telephoned and whatever she'd said to Mary and whatever Mary had passed on to Sybil had the sisters linking pinkies. Though Cora should have been happy that all _three _of her girls seemed to be getting along (despite recent events and despite the fact she could not remember the last time this was true) she was not. It made her feel more left out than ever. _I am your mother! _she wanted to scream. But of course, Cora had never screamed in her life.

Robert's mother was there, of course, holding her walking stick in one hand and young Robbie's hand in the other. _That should be me,_ Cora thought sullenly, _he should not prefer _her _over _me_._ But then, to add insult to injury, Robbie had begun to jump up and down at the sight of Isobel. "Iz!" he crowed happily. "I am two!"

"Are you certain you are two?" Isobel said as she knelt in the grass to embrace the boy.

"Yes, I am. I am," he nodded enthusiastically, a little man in a cream suit, and baby blue bow tie.

She took his face in her hands, as if examining his face. "Yes, now I see it. I don't know how I missed it. You are definitely a two-year-old boy."

Cora had not even wanted to invite Isobel but Robert had insisted. "Do you want them to hate us even more than they already do? And besides, I didn't realize you and Isobel were quarreling? Or does this have something to do with your conflict with Matthew and Mary that you won't tell me about either?" Of course, Cora could not explain it to him. When she'd further broached the subject to Sybil (obviously a mistake), Sybil had bitten her lips to keep from screaming. "It's Robbie's birthday and he's fond of Isobel and so am I and we want her there."

Cora wanted to scream at Isobel: _You can never love him as much as I do!_

But the children did look lovely in the outfits she'd chosen, though Robbie pulled at the bow tie and Gracie kept removing her hat. She set them on the bench and begged them to smile at the photographer she'd brought to the estate for the day. "Smile," she chirped/demanded. But the two of them began to wrestle and Robbie grabbed Gracie's hat and smashed it while Gracie giggled as if he'd done exactly as she wanted. "Oh!" Cora stamped her foot. "You've ruined everything, Robbie."

Sybil grabbed her mother's elbow and pulled her away (eventually the photographer did get a rather sweet photograph of the cousins hugging). "Do you know what today is?" Sybil asked her mother.

"Why, of course, I–"

"I was just wondering since I just heard you tell my son, the birthday boy, my two year old son, who can't sit still for more than a minute, that _he'd ruined everything_," Sybil snapped.

"I only want a photograph of my two grandchildren," Cora murmured, looking a bit ashamed.

Sybil was uncomfortable and hot. She was angry, too. She snapped at Cora, "Why?"

"Why, what?" Cora asked, looking elegant and perspiration-free in the heat.

"Why do you want a photograph of your grandchildren?" Sybil asked through her teeth.

"So that I can show–"

Sybil was suddenly also very tired. Why had she started a pointless argument over this? "I understand the sentiment, but why don't we focus on making memories instead?" she replied cheerfully. After her mother walked away, she nearly growled, "_Cora_, if you ruin today I'll..."

"Did I just hear you threaten your mother using her Christian name? What are you going to do with her?" Tom asked in her ear. "You must be really angry to call her _Cora._"

She hugged him despite the heat. "I'll scratch her eyes out!"

"No, you won't," he replied and kissed her hair. It was because he loved Sybil and because he loved Robbie that he was the one who constantly defended this family. Because they were family and he did not want Sybil to wake up one day with the weight of regret on her chest.

She smacked him affectionately. "Oh, get away from me!"

"Yes, that's just what you were saying earlier, dear," Tom replied. "We've just got to make it through today without killing anyone, Sybil. If I reach for your father, you pull me back, and if you reach for your mother, I'll pull you back."

"Deal," she replied. The deal would prove necessary since Grandpapa Robert was about to unveil his gift. He dabbed at the sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief and stuck his shoulders back. He was giddy to show Robbie his gift.

"Robbie," Cora called in her bird-like voice. He had a grass stain on his bum from when Gracie had knocked him down but Grandmama did not have to know about that. "Grandpapa is going to give you a present."

"Yes!" Gracie cheered on his behalf.

"You love presents, don't you?" Cora asked Robbie.

"We have to walk a bit," Robert declared, and so the parade of the family made their way towards the stables, the Earl and the Countess seeming oblivious to the tension among the other adults. The air seemed charged, as it is just before a storm comes, just as the thunder and lightning clouds move to cover the sun.

"Horsey!" Robbie cried when he saw Lynch leading a horse the color of caramel around the yard. This was no pony but a thoroughbred. He'd cost a fortune.

"Nayyy!" Gracie added. The cousins laughed together as they moved closer to the fence. Lynch brought the horse over to them. He handed them each a carrot which the horse ate quickly, lacking manners as bits of orange flew everywhere. But the children laughed.

"Loves carrots, he does," Lynch said proudly, patting the horse. "Almost as much as apples."

"Well that's just it, Robbie my boy," Robert said with pride, his voice booming for everyone to hear. He wanted to lift Robbie up so the boy could pet the horse's nose, but it made him nervous. He wasn't sure how to handle a two year old. "My present to you is this horse. His name is Emerald." To the adults he added, "You know, because Robbie is from the Emerald Isle? It seemed appropriate." He laughed nervously at his own joke. To Robbie he added, "The horse's name is Emerald."

Robbie shook his head. "No."

"No?" Robert replied. He was not used to this word.

"Lion," Robbie cried and growled very ferociously. "Lion da horse."

Sybil stepped forward to pick up her son. It was difficult with such a belly, but she showed Robbie how to pet the horse's nose. "Lions are his favorite animal, Papa," she stated. "He's a bit blood thirsty, our Robbie."

"Well, the coloring is right," Mary defended. "And it's better than the name _Baby_ when you are expecting a baby."

Sybil sighed. "Yes, I suppose it is."

"Come, come," Granny called to the children. "Let's go run and play and get as dirty as possible." She may or may not have given Cora a look as she and Isobel passed with the children, holding hands between them. Robbie did not seemed fazed to leave his horse, Emerald/Lion.

Robert and Cora were left with the Bransons, Mary, and Matthew.

"Papa," Sybil said stiffly, stepping forward. She was so angry. "He's too little to ride, especially a horse like that."

"Well, yes, but someday..."

"And while I appreciate the homage in the name," Tom added, "that horse will never see Ireland, where we live in a city, which you would know if you ever came to see us. We came here for a week last summer; this one is different. You've given him a gift that he'll see for a small piece of the whole year."

"Why do you always have to do this, Papa?" Sybil asked. He was befuddled by her tears. "Always."

"What have I done?" he asked.

"You've given our son a completely inappropriate gift, one that will upset him more than anything. He'll want to ride and he can't and he'll be upset," Tom stated in as calm a voice as he could manage. "Just who is that gift for, Robert?"

"Why, Robbie, of course!" Robert could not help shouting a bit.

"What about the watch you gave him last year? The one that is worth more than I make in a year, the one that he won't be able to wear for years, who was that gift for?" Tom asked relentlessly. "Were you trying to prove a point? That you can give him things I will never be able to? Well, you're right. But I guarantee that the rocking horse waiting for him at home will prove to be a much more enjoyable gift for my son."

"Branson, clearly you–"

Sybil stomped closer. She was furious. "His name is Tom! And he is my husband and the father to my children! I am happier with him than I ever was here!" At her last exclamation, Robert looked as if he'd been shot.

"Now, now," Cora began.

"Oh, please stay out of this, Mama," Mary interrupted unkindly. "You're no better."

"What about the dog you gave Grace?" Tom continued. "A puppy for a twenty month old little girl? With a mother who has an infant on the way? Who was that gift for, Robert? What were you trying to prove?"

"I don't know why I try at all," Robert blustered. "Everything I do is scrutinized and used as evidence to prove what a horrible grandfather and father I am."

"Oh, Papa!" Mary cried, and now she was in tears as well. "I don't think you are a horrible father." _You held me on the beach and you wiggled your toes in the sand and you ran into the waves to save me. You saved me. _

"I'm the only one here not related to you by blood so perhaps it's easier for me to see that your family doesn't want elaborate gifts or gestures. You don't need to prove anything to them. They only want your love and respect." Tom's words were quiet but potent. "I know how you feel about me and you're entitled. You can call me anything you want. You can still think of me as the man who drives you about. It's nothing to me but it hurts Sybil; it hurts your daughter."

"Tom–" Robert started.

"I'm not done. I have held my peace for years now. I know you think that I'm this crazed Irish radical but there is something that trumps my politics, and that's my family. Can't you see that all Sybil wants is for you to look at her like you used to before she married me? Can't you stop punishing her? Can't you just love Robbie, as he is, half Irish yes, but half Crawley too? Is that so bloody radical?"

Sybil was sobbing quietly into her hands, the truth of her husband's words like an arrow into her heart. He'd never even said those words to _her _before. He only defended them, made excuses for her mother and father. _They're your family, _he would say. And she would cry out, _but they are hurting me!,_ crying in his arms. If her parents only knew how many times _Tom_ had convinced her to forgive them, to give it another go. What an honorable man Tom was. She only wanted them to _see._ _Papa, won't you look at me? Really look at me? You have not looked at me since I told you I was marrying Tom. _She cried into Mary's shoulder when Mary laid an arm around her, since their bellies did not allow for an embrace. She looked up at her father, opened her mouth to speak, and had to try again. She did not know the difference between her sweat and her tears. "I know that you're still angry at me for marrying Tom." She waited for him to deny it but he didn't. "But I'm not sorry because I love him. And more than that, more than anything, marrying Tom proved that your love for me was conditional, that you could only love me if I lived the life you wanted for me. And that's not love." She turned her face into her sister's neck and cried and cried.

Tom blew out a breath. He wanted to go to her but it seemed only right that the sisters comfort one another. He could feel Matthew come and stand beside him. "Thank you for your gifts. They've done their job. You've given Robbie things I will never be able to. But he's happy and healthy and loved and, Jesus Christ, that's enough for me."

"I don't know what you expect," Robert stated, his jaw hard. "The four of you stand against us like there is a line drawn in the sand."

"You drew it," Matthew accused.

Robert raised his hands in the air. When he spoke, he had no control. "All right, I drew it. I was angry and hurt that my youngest married below her station and moved to Ireland. I was beyond livid and hurt when my eldest left with hardly a word, that the man I consider a son, you, Matthew, fathered a child with her, married her, at some point, who knows when, and left her alone in America for the majority of that child's life. Do you think that makes me happy? Do you think that makes family dinners easy? Do you think I'm _pleased_ that neither of my grandchildren knows me, really knows me?"

"Of course not," Matthew snapped. "But why not just say that instead of forcing us to pretend? Asking us to dress our children in these outfits for this perfect day when this family is anything but? Look at your daughters," Matthew demanded. "Look!"

They were both weeping openly, soundlessly.

"You told me on more than one occasion, when you were grooming me to be Earl, that Downton was your life's work," Matthew continued. "It's only a house, you know, without people in it. Only a building. It won't embrace you or cuddle with you, as your grandchildren would. It won't nurse you when you're ill as your daughters would."

After a minute of silence, Tom concluded: "Now, I want everyone to pull themselves together. It's my son's birthday and we are going to celebrate it whether we feel like it or not. We've said our piece and it's over for now. We will smile. We will laugh. We will be polite."

By the time the rather depressed group made it back to the children, Violet, and Isobel, the children's clothes were thoroughly ruined and they were exceedingly happy. When Robbie was told his present from Mum and Da was waiting at home, he shrugged and asked for more ice cream, which dripped all over his suit. When he opened the gift from Gracie, a plush black stuffed dog that looked very much like Baby, he oohed and ahed over it and would not let it go the whole of the night. Cora pouted, quietly and off to the side, alone.

* * *

><p>At some point, after the ice cream completely melted, Robert excused himself and walked off alone. After a few minutes, Grace followed him.<p>

Matthew reached to stop her but Mary held him back. "Let her go," she whispered. "He'll make sure she's all right." Matthew looked doubtful but Mary could not tell him of her memory. It was too special, too sacred to speak of at all. It was made up of sensations, not words. She only knew that when Robert finally stopped and found Gracie a few feet away from him, he would hold her and protect her; he would run into the sea if it meant saving her.

Robert walked for over fifteen minutes before he realized that Gracie was following him. He only wanted a moment of peace, under one of his favorite trees where he could digest what this day had been so far. "Grace, what are you doing?" he asked helplessly. _Can't you see I'm a poor excuse for a father, let alone a grandfather?_

She skipped to him and took his hand. Robert had forgotten how sweet little girls could be, how sweet his daughters had been, at this age. Grace would not stand against him, making accusations. Instead, she would hold his hand "You," she told him in a dulcet tone, and so they walked on together until they reached the tree.

"This is my favorite tree," he told her. "I like to sit under it and think."

"Tree," Gracie pointed up at it. "Big!"

"It's older than me," he told her and she sat beside him, snuggling into his side. "All of this is older than me." He pointed to the house and the grounds. Gracie looked up at him as if she understood. "When I was a boy, and I was angry or sad, or just wanted to be alone, I would come to this tree."

Gracie did not know the word _lonely_. She did not know what it meant or how to say it. She only knew that as she had watched her grandfather walk away from the group, through the very green grass, his shoulders were slumped, and he was the only figure in that sea of green.

She did know the word _sad. _She could say it and use it in the most shallow of ways–if her mother did not allow Baby to accompany them she might say: _Baby sad._ But that had been the word she'd thought of when she saw him walking away. _Sad. _She followed him because she could not bear the thought. It hurt her. She rubbed at her eyes, as if she might cry.

"You look exactly like your mama, do you know?" Robert asked. "Like an exact replica. I was so scared when your mama was born. The first time I held her, I was shaking."

"Mama," she parroted, nodding.

"Sometimes I wish she was little like you are so I could do things differently," he admitted. "What do you think of that? What do you think she would say if I told her _that_?"

"Lalou," Grace answered.

"You love me?" he asked. "I'm not a very lovable person. I haven't done anything to make you love me, except give you a very inappropriate gift."

She nodded. "Lalou..." her mouth struggled over her next word. "Gee-pa."

He smiled. She took both of his hands in hers and gestured that he should clap at her accomplishment. After all, this was a new word. "Very good," he told her. "You are very smart. Like your Mama. She liked to read. Do you like books?" Gracie nodded. "Well, maybe I will buy you some."

"Gee-pa," she repeated and pulled at his cuff. "Cream. Robbie." And it suddenly hit Robert, coming from the mouth of a little girl who wasn't even two years old, that she did not want him to _buy _her books. She wanted _him_. And though attempts had been made by many family members to impart that same knowledge and much more elegantly, even as recently this afternoon, he finally was beginning to understand.

"It's his birthday and you want ice cream?" he asked. "And you want me to come with you?"

She nodded but also yawned. He'd been afraid to pick Robbie up earlier but he swung Gracie up into his arms; the weight of her felt new and familiar at the same time. By the time he walked back to the party, Gracie was asleep in his arms. He looked down at her before he passed her to her father. Yes, she did look a great deal like Mary. But she wasn't Mary. He could not go back; he could only go forward.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Short and sweet done here. A lot to digest. I would LOVE to hear from you (especially because I am going on vacation next week and you guys have to remind me you're here waiting for more). I loved hearing from so many new people and the golden oldies, of course. _


	42. Chapter 42

_A/N: Hello! I have not forgotten about you and I have hope you have not forgotten about me and this story :) Sorry for the delay in posting but I have been on vacation with spotty internet, but do not fear, I have been writing...which is good in the long run. Spotty internet also means that I have a ton of correspondence to catch up too and I WILL. I promise. For this chapter and the previous one. I figured while I had a few bars, you'd prefer a chapter. As always, thank you to **Faeyero**. She really is great, I have to tell you. Thank you for your patience! I hope you are still with me. xx_

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><p>Chapter Forty Two<p>

On Monday morning, Mary was deeply shocked to open the door and find her father on the doorstep, a small satchel in his hand. He did not look contrite but determined, his mouth set in a firm but not unfriendly line. She almost took a step back in retreat because it had been one of _those_ mornings. Technically, Molesley should have opened the door but since he was currently struggling to remove one of Baby's excretions from the carpet, the task fell to Mary. To add to the disarray, Gracie chased Baby or perhaps Baby chased Gracie. It was always rather hard to tell, amongst the giggles, friendly barks, and the blur of black movement and Gracie's toddling run.

"Papa!" Mary said, shock etching itself into both syllables of his name. "It's so–You...Come in."

She ushered him in to her home, completely at a loss as to why he would be visiting after the day before. Uncertainty was not an emotion Mary was comfortable with and normally, perhaps she would fake it–arching her eyebrows, rounding her words to sound superior, and tilting her chin. But this morning, she could not; she had no dignity to hide behind as her child ran around like a banshee and her butler cleaned up a treat from Baby. She was pregnant and growing fatter by the day.

More than that, she was exhausted. She was taking care of a twenty-three month old baby. And she certainly felt (as did Mosesley at times) that Baby, the dog, proved to be more work than an actual second child. Just before she'd opened the door, she'd been lamenting over what she would do once the second (human) baby did come. There would be no way to manage the menagerie of children and _that dog_; and Gracie's heart would be broken if she was parted from her companion. Sometimes she felt as if motherhood–when it came to making the hard decisions–was a lose/lose situation, but then her girl would press her little lips to Mary's and it felt the exact opposite.

If Mary expected her father to speak of yesterday, she was entirely wrong. "I'm here to train that dog," he paused, and Mary wanted to smile as her father forced himself to repeat the dog's name, "_Baby_."

She wanted to hug him. She wanted to get down on her knees and bow to him. That's _how_ bad her morning had been. It was funny what can be forgiven when one was so desperate.

But he wasn't finished. "And I want to teach Grace how to deal with that..._Baby_...as well."

"Isn't she a little young?" Mary asked, though her voice was tentative because she was simply elated at the prospect of Baby being trained _at all._

Robert's mouth quirked in a smile. "You weren't much older than she when Pharaoh was born, and you ordered him about as if you were a queen."

She returned his smile. "You're right. I loved him very much." It _was _ good for a girl to have a dog, she knew. Just not when the child was so young and the puppy so untrained and not at this point in the family. When Mary considered every transition that had taken place since April, she had to sit down. Baby tipped the scales considerably.

"Well, Grace loves this..._Baby_...and I think both Grace and _Baby_ are ready to learn. I brought some treats." He held up the satchel. "I thought Grace, _Baby, _and I would work in the backyard. Undoubtedly, you have errands to run."

Undoubtedly.

Not.

Mary froze. He wanted to be left in sole charge of Gracie _and _Baby. Mary did not know if she was ready for that. And yet, she knew he was throwing down the gauntlet, very gently of course.

_You want me to know her? You want me to love her? Then I have to spend time with her._

_Without interference. _

Mary also sensed that in some twisted way, Robert wanting to _train _Baby was an apology of sorts (though she could be entirely wrong since his apologies tended to never verbally materialize). He was admitting that his gift of an untrained puppy wasn't fair to the household, though he would never say so aloud, at least not yet. But could he handle Gracie? Could Mary trust him with her? (More pressing: _could he handle _Baby_?_) But Gracie caught sight of him and yelled, "Gee-pa" from across the room and ran to him, the dog at her heels.

He scooped her up. Perhaps not as adeptly as Matthew, but Mary had to smile when the little girl ran her palms over her grandfather's cheeks, and squealed, "Gee-pa" again with excitement. He grinned for a moment and then suppressed it when he noticed Mary's arched brow.

"We are going to teach..._Baby _some tricks today. And Mama will go run some errands," he explained to the child and Gracie nodded very serious, up to the task.

_Well, Papa, some things never change. Apparently Grace will be in your sole charge and apparently I will be running errands. _

Yet she could not find it within herself to be spiteful, not while watching her father carry her daughter to the back of the house, Baby close at their heels. She wanted to cry but she decided to save any sentimentality for when she arrived home from her errands (what errands?) and saw the "results" for herself.

* * *

><p>Mary had no errands but the bakery was open. She and Gretchen had graduated to pleasantries, such as: "How is the weather today?" And Gretchen, noticing that Mary was pregnant and preferred chocolate in her pastries rather than fruit, began to stock more items in that vein. She did this without a word; there were no more confessionals, no more outbursts. There was only, "What can I get for you today?" and just recently, "How is the weather today? Hot?"<p>

Mary felt they'd reached an understanding especially when today Gretchen had fresh chocolate and walnut scones waiting for her–an unusual combination but one Mary craved. "I would love six of those," Mary announced kindly. "Though I promise not to eat them all in one sitting."

"Well, even if you do," Gretchen replied, packaging the items, "I won't tell anyone. You're entitled," she added, politely alluding to Mary's obvious pregnancy in a friendly way that did not leave Mary feeling anxious and ugly. "And how is the weather today?" Gretchen asked as exchanged the scones with Mary's payment.

"It's very pleasant," Mary replied, smiling. "Not as hot as it has been."

"Good," Gretchen sighed. "I don't think I could stand one more day like we've had. Please have a good day, Lady Mary."

Mary found it to be a very successful visit as she left. Mary and Matthew had not spoken about Mary's frequencies to the bakery. Of course, he had eyed her purchases with a question written on his face, as if asking, _What are you up to? _Her only reply had been to rub her belly, as if to say, _this really has nothing to do with you at all. _The subject was closed and he never wordlessly asked about it again.

Mary walked for a time. She couldn't remember the last time she'd just had an hour like this, to do what she pleased. She didn't have to think about what Gracie needed (she only prayed that Papa was thinking of that). She did not have to worry about Matthew. The scones were warm in their bag. Mary could feel the heat of them and decided she could not wait for home, so she found a bench and decided she would eat her scone (or _scones_) outside on this gorgeous day. She promised herself she would not worry about what was happening back at home, or even consider her family's dysfunction at all. It was all about the bench beneath her, the cool breeze, the melting chocolate and warm walnuts in her mouth. It felt decadent. It felt perfect.

Then, out of the periphery of her vision, she saw someone sit on the other side of the bench, just as she licked chocolate from her fingers.

"Hello, Lady Mary," the timid voice said.

Mary turned to find her malnourished twin, Marianne Carlisle, sitting beside her (though there was quite a bit of distance between them), trying to smile, her hands twisted the fabric of her dress nearly into knots. Mary did not know if it was the hormones or her sudden new beginnings with Edith but she felt sorry for Marianne Carlisle. Perhaps she was as ruthless and violent as her husband but Mary found that hard to believe that the woman with the skinny shoulders, light brown hair, and nervous voice could win a fight against Sir Richard Carlisle. So it was kinship she felt. A strange and scary and also somehow alluring kinship. _Does she know what he can be like? Is she the only other person who knows what I felt in that small library?_

"Hello, Lady Carlisle," she replied calmly, betraying none of her other emotions.

"I was just walking..." Lady Carlisle stated, her words sounding exactly like an aimless walk themselves. "I had to be outside today. And then I saw you, and I've always wanted to speak with you, just you and I, and I had to sit here. I'm sorry if I am intruding. I know I'm rambling. I always ramble. Richard always complains about it. He says he I should _cooly measure my words_ but I'm afraid I haven't mastered that yet." She smiled, but this smile took effort. Mary wondered just how Richard _complained _about his wife's ramblings. "I'm just so nervous to speak with you."

"Would you like a scone?" Mary asked. "They are delicious."

"Oh, I couldn't," Lady Carlisle said, making it clear that she very much did want a scone. "My husband, oh, of course, you know him. Richard. He prefers me to be slight." Her eyes widened. "I shouldn't have said that. That's between a husband and a wife and I shouldn't have said it. I'm so sorry. I'm nervous."

"Don't be nervous," Mary implored and reached into the bag. "And please have a scone. Who's to know?"

Lady Carlisle took the scone and ate it as delicately as one could on a bench. Though it had not been Mary's intention, the ease with which Lady Carlisle took her up on her offer proved two things: the poor thing was hungry and the poor thing was malleable. Mary's stomach curdled at the thought of what Richard had done–or would do–to her.

"Thank you," Lady Carlisle said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. "That was delicious. Please call me Marianne. All this Lady Carlisle business just confuses me. I didn't grow up with it and it seems silly to me. Oh, I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry."

"You didn't offend me. All right," Mary replied. "I shall call you Marianne if you call me Mary."

"Oh, I couldn't," Marianne cried. "You see, I just mean-I was a secretary at Richard's newspaper. I lived with my family in a flat smaller than Richard could imagine. And he just plucked me out of that world and I felt like a I princess for awhile but I didn't know...I didn't understand...Oh, here I go, saying things I shouldn't."

"Marianne," Mary began candidly. "You know that Sir Richard and I were engaged. You know it did not end amicably, I'm sure. I don't think he would like you to tell me about these things. Though please, I mean no offense by my censure."

"He makes it sound as if...It didn't end amicably?" Marianne asked, though her voice and face betrayed the fact that she was sure whatever Richard had told her was wrong. "But you must know he still admires you a great deal. He makes it sound as if it did end amicably, though he was sad to end the engagement."

_Sad?_

Mary shook her head resolutely. She tightened the lid to the box with the small library inside. "I'm afraid you are mistaken."

"But, Lady Mary, or Mary..." Marianne nearly reached out a hand to touch her; her mouth was rounded in the perfect _oh _of shock. "You are wrong. Since we were married he has always compared me to you. When I displease him, it's your name he mentions. It became clear to me, after we were married, that he wanted to turn me into you, since he couldn't actually have you. Or that's wrong. I shouldn't have said that. Maybe I should have said it that you are the woman he measures all others by and I feel short." Her blunt manner as well as her confessions made it clear that Marianne did not have practice conversing with the aristocracy.

"Marianne," Mary stated kindly. "Sir Richard and I did not part ways on good terms. He was very angry with me. But that was many years ago and I am sure your husband loves you just as you are."

Tears pooled in Marianne's eyes but she did not shed them. "He doesn't, you know," she paused. "I was so dazzled by him at first. How he chose me. How he pursued me. Then we were married and for awhile...but since we've come to stay here at Haxby, hardly anyone will associate with us. And perhaps I shouldn't say this, perhaps I definitely shouldn't say this, but he is fixated on you in a way that hurts me."

Now Mary did reach out and touch the woman. "You don't have to worry about me pursuing your husband."

"That's not what I am worried about," Marianne insisted. "He's so...He gets angry and sometimes..." she did not finish her thought. "Why, just a few weeks ago, he suggested we take a walk. _How lovely, _I thought. The next thing I know he's pointing to a house and he's saying _that's where she lives, Lady Mary and her husband_...and we passed by the gate and your adorable little girl was playing with her puppy. And he tried to speak with her but the dog..." she paused and tried to regain some semblance of control of her words but couldn't. "I want to talk to you because...I want to please my husband. Not just because I _love _him," the way the word skittered out of her mouth made Mary think Marianne _feared_ the man more than loved him, "but because there are consequences when I don't...when I can't...Oh, I've made a whole mess of this conversation."

Mary felt frozen at the revelation that Richard had been by the house. Had he spoken to Gracie? Had he _touched _her? "You haven't," Mary comforted automatically because she had to know more. She had to act normally, as if she wasn't withering from the inside, her guts twisted into knots. "But if you want my advice, I must say, you shouldn't have to be anyone other than yourself, not with someone who loves you."

"But I'm only _Marianne_. He pulled me out from a family of ten. I made the most money out of all of them as a secretary. I don't know how to be Marianne and be his wife and that's not what he wants," Marianne cried out, seemingly tortured by her own identity. Mary wondered if it was self- inflicted or if this was Richard's doing as well; she wondered if Marianne would have been much happier staying a secretary in her flat filled with ten people. Marianne suddenly turned towards Mary. She closed her eyes as she spoke. "Did he ever...When you were...together...did he ever...?"

Mary thought she knew what the woman was asking but she needed to fine-tune her question. "Are you asking me if Sir Richard was ever less than gentlemanly towards me?"

Marianne opened her eyes. Tears were still there, still unshed. "Yes."

"Marianne," Mary began, wetting her lips. "You have put me in a difficult position, by no fault of your own. To speak of Sir Richard to you...how do I know you will not tell him what I say? You say he is fixated on me; _I do not want him fixated on me._"

Marianne let one tear drop. "You just answered my question. He _did _hurt you."

Mary arched an eyebrow. "Broken engagements often end with hurt feelings."

Marianne proved she was no dummy. "_You _broke off the engagement. And when I speak of him hurting you, I don't mean _feelings_."

"Marianne," Mary grasped her hand. "What do you hope to achieve from this conversation? I have a husband and children to think of. If he has been vicious to you physically, then perhaps you should consider a–"

"A divorce?" Marianne wilted, her shoulders folding in as if she were a bird with broken wings. "Do you think he would let me go? I think perhaps we are the only two people in the world who know exactly how Richard _lets go_ of something that belongs to him."

_His breath smells of port._

_He tears your dress._

_He drags his nails against your arms as if he could skin you. _

_He thrusts into you so hard your head hits the bookshelf behind you repeatedly._

_You want to scream but you cannot. You cannot. _

_You want to be empty._

_You want to be still._

_But when he leaves you on the floor, broken, trembling, you want to die. To die–the only way to ever be still again._

Mary tried desperately to close the lid on the box that Marianne had just opened with her words. She had to squeeze her eyes shut and turn away. She had to press her hand to her stomach and think, _Baby, don't worry about this. Don't listen. But please, help me not to cry. _When she turned back to Marianne, her eyes were clear and focused. "Do you want to leave him?"

"I–" For a moment, there was hope in Marianne's eyes. Here was freedom and it was being offered to her by the most unlikely source–but whether it was fear or something more twisted that had her continuing, Mary could not say. "I love him. I...I couldn't."

Mary stood. "Then if that's true, this conversation never happened. It's not to be repeated to anyone. Go back to your husband and do the best you can. I have nothing to offer you."

Marianne looked distressed, as if she had made a grave error. "I'm sorry if I offended you. Of course, I won't speak of it to anyone–"

"Not just _anyone_," Mary whispered harshly. "_Your husband._"

Marianne shook her head. "Of course, I won't speak of it to him. No matter what. Do you know what he would do to me if I...I only want to be...Oh, this sounds so childish. I only want to be _friends_ with you."

Mary shook her head. "I cannot be your friend. I cannot be connected to your husband in any way. I freed myself of him a long time ago and I will_ not_ attach myself again."

Marianne, again, proved how astute she was, and also that she had no filter for her words. "But did you _really_ free yourself of him?"

Mary could not answer. Her face, she was sure, was ashen. She thought of the smell of Matthew, darling, beloved Matthew's breath, that had had her running to the bathroom.

"Good day, Lady Carlisle," Lady Mary replied, ending the conversation and walking home with four scones in her bag. She willed herself to close the lid on the box but her hand remained on her unborn child, trembling, not at all still.

* * *

><p>Robert was a bit nervous, after faking so much bravado in front of Mary. But now, faced with Grace and the black dog, <em>Baby (<em>My God, would he really have to call the dog by such a name?), he wondered exactly what he planned to do.

"Play!" Grace demanded, and for a moment he was thrown back in time and Mary was staring up at him. But then Grace threw back her head and laughed and danced a little jig in the grass.

"No," Robert replied kindly. "We are going to teach Baby"-he tried not to wince-"how to behave."

Grace arched her eyebrow. That sounded like a complete bore.

"We will teach Baby some tricks, too," Robert offered, feeling as if he were selling himself. But when she nodded resolutely, he called in a commanding voice, "Baby!"

The dog frolicked to them, tongue hanging out of his mouth. She was already bigger than Gracie, but still quite in the puppy stage. Robert knew, from Pharoah and Isis and the dogs before them, that Labradors needed a firm hand when they were young (though he knew nothing about the dog that sired Baby). The Labrador breed was one in which the first two years were full of boundless energy, very much like a toddler. How could he have thought to give this dog to Grace? To Mary when she was expecting another baby? He hadn't been trying to prove anything, or not much. He'd just seen a little girl fall in love with a dog and he did not know how to say no. He'd thought: _I don't know what I can offer you or give you but I can do this._ And yes, of course, he wanted to give the gift of a dog as a sign of goodwill toward her parents. But he had been stupid and shortsighted, caught up in the snuggling black puppy held in the arms of the little girl with the pleading brown eyes (so like his daughter's). He had always been a sucker for puppies (though he _should_ say he was more a fond for dogs–much more acceptable to admit) and he hadn't thought.

"All right," he said to both Grace and the dog. "I am going to teach you both some things."

Baby rolled over and Grace began to vigorously rub her belly. Neither was interested in learning to behave.

"Grace," he called, "Do your mama and papa talk to you?"

"Yes," she replied, nodding.

"Do your mama and papa feed you good food?"

"Yes," she repeated. "Cream."

"But not just ice cream, right?" Robert continued, looking at her. "They feed you things to make you big and strong, too. Right?"

"Yes," she said more slowly.

"Sometimes Mama and Papa tell you _no_, don't they?" Robert, the Earl of Grantham, got down on one knee in front of her, at her level, figuratively and literally.

"Yes," she answered slyly.

"When do they tell you _no_?" he asked.

"Hot!" she cried.

"To protect you if something is hot?" he confirmed.

She nodded.

"And they put you to bed, because that's good for you, and they teach you things, like new words to say?" Robert asked.

She nodded again. "Gee-pa," she demonstrated.

He clapped. "Well, you are Baby's mama and you have to take care of her. You have to teach her things. You have to protect her." Grace looked from Robert, her face solemn, to Baby. "I'm going to help you."

She bit her lip. "Yes."

He stood in front of Baby. "Sit," he commanded. The dog only looked at him. So he pressed her rump down. Then he gave Baby a treat. "Sit," he repeated. The dog looked at him again, turning her head a bit in confusion. This time Grace was the one to push the dog's rump down. Robert gave the dog a treat. "Sit." This time the dog did a little dance before she sat.

"Yay!" Grace cheered and clapped and, after he'd given the dog a treat, he participated in Grace's enthusiastic cheering.

"Now you try," Robert offered, stepping aside. He handed her a treat which Baby immediately tried to nose out of her hand.

He was about to try to explain to Grace that she had to be firm when Grace shouted, "No!" at the dog and backed up a few feet. She pointed at Baby. "Sit," Grace declared.

And Baby sat.

After Baby was given the treat, she lovingly bestowed many kisses on the face of her mistress.

"Very good," Robert said softly and he wasn't sure if he was talking to the dog or his granddaughter or even himself, since he'd never actually thought, despite his claims to Mary otherwise, that this would work. He remembered Mary had said that to know Grace was to love her, and Robert could actually feel something in his chest shifting, unfurling like a bloom, melting away. When Grace launched herself in excitement when Baby obeyed her a second time, he lifted her and swung her around, and he would have done it even if there were others there to see. Her giggles made him smile. When she hugged him, curling into him, as if she knew she was safe there, he remembered what it felt like to have a little girl love him unconditionally and completely. She smelled of soap and dog and a sweet type of sweat that altogether was rather appealing.

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><p>Mary walked as quickly home as her growing body allowed her to. Gone was the glee over warm scones. She needed to talk to Isobel and <em>now. <em>When had Richard seen Gracie, spoken to her, in the yard? The only possibility had to be when they were on holiday–unless it had happened when Matthew was with Gracie in the backyard, but Mary couldn't see him keeping that from her. All Mary knew was that Gracie did not go out into the backyard unaccompanied by either herself, Matthew, or Isobel. Someone had some explaining to do. _Immediately._

Even as she grew angrier, enraged, her temples pulsing, she thought of what Matthew would say–that she must calm down, for this baby, that she must be careful, for this baby, that anger and stress could not solve the problem, for this baby and for Gracie. But Mary was not like that when it came to what belonged to her. Slightly miffed at Matthew and Matthew's imagined words, she knew he wasn't either. Mary knew, as well as she knew the location of the cowlick in Gracie's hair and the number of freckles she had on her own thigh, that Matthew-no matter how outwardly calm he appeared when it came to Richard–internally boiled. _Be calm, _he would say to her. She snorted aloud.

She needed to speak with Isobel and she needed to speak with her _now_.

But when she got home, Isobel was at the hospital, going over something with Granny. And Molesley was taking the bag of scones from her and gently urging her to take a look at the backyard.

She found her father and daughter, rubbing Baby's belly, the sun on their backs. "Well, it looks as if Baby is having a very a blissful day."

Her daughter looked up at her, eyes squinting, "Mama," she said with surprise. Mary knew it was the hormones; she knew it was the conversation with Marianne; she knew it was the possibility that Richard had spoken to Grace; but for a moment, Mary felt as if her daughter would have rather had her mother return much, much later and enjoyed the day with her dog and Grandfather. She wanted to cry. She wanted to lie down in the grass and give up. It was _so _hard here. Had it been this hard in New York? She could not remember. She knew she was tired, bad tempered, and hormonal, but everything, _every single bloody thing_, felt like a battle.

"We accomplished quite a bit, didn't we, Gracie and Baby?" Mary's father asked his little group. Mary thought rather nastily that suddenly it was Grac_ie _and Baby's name was murmured without a curling of his lip in distaste.

But Gracie stood up and dusted herself off. "Come!" she demanded of Baby. Baby rolled over from her stomach but made no move towards the girl.

"Try again," Robert encouraged.

"Come!" she cried, and Baby trotted over to her where a treat was waiting. "Sit," Gracie added, trying to make her voice deep like her Grandfather's. Gracie clapped her hands, as did Robert, and bounced towards her mother. "See? See? Mama, see!"

"I see," Mary replied. "I saw. What a good job you've done, Gracie." She smiled at her child's dirty face, then looked at her father. "And you, Papa. What a good job you've done as well."

Gracie was more than ready for a nap after the morning she'd had, but before Mary brought her up, as a show of goodwill, she asked her father to stay for tea, which he agreed to. It was almost as if she could feel the beginning of the tenuous bonds reforming, and like anything once dead and then alive, it was beautiful and painful.

As Robert watched his daughter carry his granddaughter up the stairs, murmuring to her, Gracie's hand finding a loose curl of her mother's and winding it around her finger, he was quite struck by the picture they made together–the two dark heads, the way the baby curled against Mary, Mary's kiss to the top of the Gracie's head, how her lips lingered. He had never pictured Mary as the maternal type, especially _this _maternal. To be fair, despite all the scheming to find her a husband, he'd never imagined her anywhere but sitting across from him at the breakfast table. And yet, Mary, with her cool quips and tilted chin and eyebrow raised, had become a _wonderful, involved _mother.

He thought of his own mother, whom he loved dearly. And his own wife. They'd done their duty. And he knew they both also loved their children. But there had been nannies, so many nannies, and then later, for his girls, governesses. But with Mary it was so clear that none of this was a _duty_. Everything about her that had once been as cold as ice had melted away. Her warm center was revealed every time she looked at Gracie or spoke of her, every time she placed her hand on her belly.

He remembered reading a letter from his sister and Mary murmuring over her tea cup, _"All alone in a house in Eaton Square? I can't imagine anything better."_

He had been harsh with her, perhaps cruel; the particulars were forgotten, but _that_ Mary, the one who believed living in a house all alone was divine, was all gone. She was a mother in a way he had never seen, never known a woman could be (and that spoke to his generation more than anything else). So was Sybil. He hoped someday Edith would be, too. So he and Cora could not have done such a poor job, could they, if they'd raised such _wonderful, warm _mothers? And perhaps Mary had only been asking, this whole time, _if I am _this_ type of mother, can't you be _this_ type of grandfather_? He thought, after his morning with Gracie and Baby, that he could be. He wanted to tell Mary this but he had no idea how to say the words.

Mary returned and called to Molesley for tea. "She went right to sleep. You wore her out." She smiled and sat across from her father, folding her hands in her lap.

"Mary?" Robert asked suddenly; for the first time, without the sun blaring into his eyes, he saw her face. She was very pale, her lips nearly bloodless. "Are you all right? You look unwell."

Molesley brought in the tea and poured. Mary noticed, with a wan smile, that he'd brought out scones that were not a part of her secret stash. "Molesley," she commented, "Perhaps it might be enjoyable for you to do some gardening out front."

"Oh yes," he nodded. "The roses do need pruning, milady."

"So it's that serious?" Robert asked once the butler left. "What about the cook? How will you make sure she doesn't hear what you are about to tell me?"

Mary smiled again but it was a pale comparison to her genuine smile. "Mrs. Byrd is doing her marketing and besides, I haven't decided _what_ I am going to tell you yet."

Robert rolled his eyes. "Of course. How dare I consider that this constant subterfuge would end?" He paused. "Regardless, with your permission, I'd like to continue to work with Gracie and Baby. I think I can teach them both quite a lot."

"Why?" Mary asked as she lifted the tea to her mouth.

"Because yesterday, I realized how utterly unfair and stupid it was of me to give you that dog in the first place. Gracie is too young. And you're expecting. And you still have not said whether you will stay here or not."

Mary wanted to cry. She wanted to lay her head in her father's lap and just weep. Instead, her lips trembled as she whispered, "Thank you. Thank you for saying that."

"Are you unwell?" he repeated.

"I had an unpleasant conversation while I was out." Robert peered at her and she moved to sit on the divan next to him. She took his hand in her own. It was so strange; it felt as if she was watching herself warm to him again. Yet it was easy. "When Granny read that letter to you...I didn't leave because I was unhappy or because of anything you had done."

He wanted to say: _But you didn't come to me, either. _"Then why?" he whispered. "I assumed...since you returned...that you were pregnant with Matthew's child and did not think we would support you if you stayed."

She pressed her lips together. "No. That is not why I left. Something...Something horrible happened to me. Something I could not recover from, not really."

"What?" he whispered, gripping her hand. He was terrified for her. "Tell me."

Her eyes looked so much bigger and browner in her pale face. "You know what I remembered when Matthew and I were on holiday?" She did not wait for his answer. "Some memory long forgotten. I was little. Edith was still a baby. And we were at the beach. I remembered how difficult it was to run in the sand. I went into the water."

Robert swallowed. "You just took off running on your stubby legs. We laughed a bit, your mother and I, never thinking you'd go into the water. I felt guilty that I laughed for weeks, months after it."

"You remember?" she asked, trembling. He could feel her hands shake.

"Of course I do," he replied, a bit defensively. "I could have lost you."

"Do you know what I remember? Running into the sea and hearing you come after me in your suit and shoes, your breath heaving. I thought how strange it was because Papa did not run. And you brought me back to shore and only then did I realize how terrified I'd been. You pressed your cheek to my hair and you were shuddering."

"Mary, please," he wet his lips. "I have made so many mistakes. I know I've made more than I am even aware of. I see the way you and Matthew parent, and also Sybil and Tom, and I knew I was lacking but I didn't know it could be different. Still, I always loved you. It may have been hard to say, but I have always loved you."

"When I remembered the sea, I remembered how much you loved me," Mary continued. "I could feel it, through your cheek to my hair. And then I remembered how you took off our shoes and we wiggled them in the sand and stood at the water's edge and Papa," her voice caught, "I felt so stupid for being angry with you, for thinking that you did not love me, when it was so clear that you did. It was so simple. You loved me. You wanted me to live. You wanted me to thrive. And then things became so muddled with the engagement to Patrick and the entail...I forgot how simple it once was between us." She began to weep. "I didn't even tell Matthew of the memory because it was so sacred to me."

"Don't cry, my girl." He used his handkerchief to wipe her tears away.

"It's because I'm pregnant," she explained (predictably, he blanched at the word). "I cry much more easily these days."

"You never cried much when you were growing up. Sometimes I would think you were already grown up because you rarely cried," he explained, uneasy with her tears, but something fragile was building in his chest at their first honest conversation.

"I cried that day on the beach," she murmured. "But not until I knew I was safe. I wondered: why did I wait to cry until you had your arms around me?"

"Mary," he pleaded.

"I'm not trying to avoid telling you, Papa, or not much," Mary began to tremble with a growing strength. She felt as if her teeth would begin to chatter in a minute. "It's just very hard to for me to speak of the what happened, what precipitated my leaving in 1920."

He took a breath. "If you aren't ready to tell me, then you don't have to. I don't want to push you away any further than I already have."

"I don't think I can tell you _all_ of it, not without Matthew here, anyway." She bit her lip and began to cry more. "I left because of something Richard did to me."

"The story of Pamuk?" Robert asked.

Mary shook her head. "No," she replied. "_To me_," she emphasized.

She lowered her eyes. She could not say the word _rape _to her father. The familiar gut-wrenching shame, the bile in her throat, the need to curl up where no one could see her was so strong she had to bite her own cheek.

"Mary–," Robert started hoarsely. "Are you saying–"

The phone rang and it kept ringing because Molesley wasn't home to answer it. So Mary stood on shaky legs and walked to it.

"Hello?" she asked, trying desperately to sound normal, to _be _normal.

It was Tom. He did not sound nervous. His voice was quick, filled with staccato. "The baby's coming. And I'm to tell you to get your arse here as fast as you can because Robbie came quickly. Those are Sybil's words, not mine."

"All right," Mary soothed. "Tell her I will be right there. Have you called Dr. George?"

"Of course! Do you think I want to deliver my second bloody baby...and on your grandmother's linens?" Tom cried before hanging up. She could imagine him, pulling at his hair.

Robert agreed to watch Gracie until Matthew came home from work, his face ashen, his lips firm but bloodless. When Mary looked at him rather dubiously, he conceded that he would call Matthew if he could not handle it. In fact, he would call Matthew anyway, to pass on the news. There would be time later to continue their conversation but Robert felt as if he was falling and if he heard the end of what she had to say...well, he wasn't sure he _could _hear the end.

Transportation was a bit of a problem. Mary and Robert had just decided to walk to Downton and have the chauffeur take her to the Dower House when Violet and Isobel pulled up, their work at the hospital finished.

"We should all go," Violet cried, grabbing onto Isobel's sleeve. "It will be a good opportunity for you to lord your medical knowledge over us."

Once inside the car, Mary looked at both of the women and very bitingly asked, "Is there anything you would like to tell me about the time Matthew and I went on holiday? Having to do with our daughter?"

Isobel looked ashamed. Violet met Mary's eyes. "Yes, there is. But now isn't the time. It won't do any good now."

"You knew too?" Mary cried.

In the end, she wasn't that surprised. She wasn't angry either. How could she be when these two women had been her sole source of female support for months and longer? Besides, she seemed to have lost her rage somewhere; it must have drained out of her during the conversation with her father.

Mary remembered the first lie Granny had ever told her, touching her hand, in the small library: _It's all over. _She'd had to say that because that is what one says so that the person, the _victim_, so that _the victim _can put one foot in front of the other and begin to put what is shattered back together again, to make the brokenness into some semblance of a life. The lie was told out of love. That had been a lie borne of love. She trusted Granny to lie out of love.

She trusted Isobel as well.

That had to be enough. At this moment, with her niece or nephew on the way, it had to be enough. But Marianne's question plagued her, as if it were written into the tissue of her brain: _But did you _really _free yourself of him?_

And of course, the thing that Mary never asked herself: _How will I ever be free of him?_

There was no room to talk of lies borne out of love, not when she trusted Isobel and Violet. There was no room in the car to replay her conversation with Marianne or to speak of it at all. There was only the nervous energy of the the three women in the car, the nervous expectation of three mothers who had felt the pressure to push and held a live infant in their hands. All the while, it was as if, together, they chanted silently: _Sybil, Sybil, Sybil._

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><p><em>AN: What did you think? I know, I know, there is no Matthew here, but believe me this chapter is very important in setting up to come. I will try my very best, and with help from my enthusiastic readers (press that review button) to have a chapter filled to the brim with Matthew. Okay, not to the brim...but with a lot of Matthew. And a lot has been going on with Matthew while all the other players went about their business. _


	43. Chapter 43

_A/N: Hello! This is a chapter I've been looking forward to for awhile so I hope you enjoy it. Thank you to **Faeyero**, for her continued work as beta. Thanks to everyone who reviews. Seriously, you all blow me away. I never really look at the numbers of reviews for the chapters. I like to read and respond to your thoughts, impressions, critique etc. So I don't ever know if one chapter receives more reviews than another. But anyway, today I happened to see that we are at 387. Wouldn't it be so cool to get to 400? Especially because I have yet to write the next chapter *ohmygoshi'msorry* I need a writer's b12 shot, guys. Let me hear ya._

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><p>Chapter Forty Three<p>

Mary rushed into the Dower house, Isobel and Granny directly behind. She was not graceful. She tripped coming out of the car. But she was also very busy–stuffing her conversation with Marianne into the box that held the small library and Richard's conversation with her child (though that was much harder to contain in a box that could only fit so much). She told herself that Grace was _safe now _and because of that she closed the lid of the box as tightly and as firmly as she could.

It had to be about Sybil. It _was _about Sybil.

Mary knew that Sybil would say that Mary had nothing to atone for, nothing to feel guilty over, but in the private recesses of Mary's heart, though she knew it would have been impossible at the time, she mourned the fact that she had not been there when Robbie was born, that she and Sybil had not shared confidences, written letters over the trials, tribulations, and especially the joys of motherhood. Her little sister–who had tugged on Mary's dress, who had fallen into divots, who had laughed over grass stains and dirt on her face–was upstairs in the beginning stages of _labor. _

Mary could remember, hazily, when Sybil was born. Someone had set the baby in Mary's arms and told her to be careful, to be still. Their mother's voice had been soft and wafting through the air, almost like mist: "You must be careful. This is your little sister. You must take care of her." But no one had seemed to notice that this _baby_, this _sister _of Mary's had been shaking her fists in either excitement or in eagerness for a fight. Her kicking legs had refused to be swaddled. Mary had wondered how she was supposed to be _careful_ and _still _when this baby wanted neither of those things and was making it perfectly obvious to anyone who cared to pay attention. Sybil had been a gorgeous baby, with blinking almond eyes that turned a chocolate brown very early. She had cried every single time the nanny had swaddled her and yet the woman would not relent, so Mary had often snuck into the nursery to loosen Sybil's bonds, to watch her baby sister sigh, yawn, and fall asleep, once she had been freed.

Later, they had linked pinkies and even shared secrets. Even now, though Sybil was married with a son and another baby on the way, Mary still felt protective, still felt the words first bestowed on her when she had held Sybil for the first time: _This is your little sister. You must take care of her. _

Tom was pacing, his hair standing on end from his restless hands, just as Mary had anticipated. "Is the doctor here?" she asked without preamble.

"Yes," he replied, taking Mary's hand and squeezing it as hard as he could. He seemed completely unaware of his movements, the jerkiness of his steps, the awkward angle of his elbows. "She only wants you up there. She's given Cora the job of watching Robbie. Cora just _loved _that. But Mary...you have to keep me up to date on the progress. I was _there _when Robbie was born. I need to know what is happening. Do you understand?"

"Of course, Tom," Mary replied as soothingly as she could, trying not to wince as he gripped her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Granny already pouring some brandy into a glass. If Tom did not watch out, he would be stumbling drunk by the time he held his progeny. "Let me go see her and I will let you know what is happening. All right?"

"All right," he agreed, a bit sullenly. He finally let go of her hands and as soon as his were free, Granny shoved the glass of brandy into them. He looked perplexed for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders and downing the contents in one swallow.

Mary knocked on Sybil's door but did not wait for a response. This was not the time for pleasantries and Sybil was apparently in agreement since she fairly shouted, "Mary!" with such desperation, flinging her arms up as if to embrace her sister (which was impossible since Sybil was horizontal with a very large belly protruding from her body). In the end, Mary linked pinkies with her sister and needlessly pushed back tendrils of hair from Sybil's face. "Darling," Mary murmured, smiling.

Doctor George had arrived in haste, well aware of Sybil's history of quick labor, and sat in the corner on a chair he'd stolen from another room, his eyes on a pocket watch. There was little sense of urgency in his demeanor as he watched his clock.

"Don't worry," Sybil consoled her sister. "We won't be here all night. Why, Robbie came so fast the doctor didn't even make it in time! This whole matter," she gestured towards her stomach, "should be taken care of rather quickly."

Mary looked over at Doctor George for confirmation but his eyes were on the clock he held in his hand. And then a contraction hit. Sybil cried out and grasped the whole of Mary's hand. "Breathe," Mary told her, "just breathe," as she watched Sybil's belly ripple.

"Do not push," Doctor George instructed calmly as he walked towards the bed. "It is not time yet."

Sybil could not reply since she was gritting her teeth against the pain of the contraction. He did _not_ want her to push? When _everything_ in her body was telling her to push? When she had delivered Robbie in_ under an hour_? When she was a _nurse_ herself? _Why, Doctor George was lucky to have made it here in time at all!_

When the contraction was over, and she lay back against the pillows, she said as much to Doctor George. Her tone reached a level of condescension Mary could not recall ever having heard from Sybil.

"There is too much time between your contractions for you to push," Doctor George replied, unruffled by her comments and attitude. "You refuse to be put to sleep...so..." he paused and raised his eyebrows, "I'm afraid you must ride it out."

"But you don't understand," Sybil repeated, as if speaking to a six year old. "My first labor lasted less than an hour. And second babies are supposed to come more quickly."

"And I have told you, Lady Sybil," Doctor George continued with patience, "that every labor, like every pregnancy, is different. There is no cause for alarm."

"Well, I _am_ alarmed!" Sybil retorted angrily. "This is _not _how it went the first time. Something must be wrong."

"Your labor is progressing quite normally," Doctor George consoled his patient. "I'm sure, as a medical professional, you know that your first delivery was actually the anomaly. If you would let me put you to sleep..."

"No," Sybil cried. "I can't." She looked up at Mary, squeezed her pinky, imploring her sister to agree with those same almond eyes Mary had first seen so many years ago. "Not after what happened with Edith."

Again, Dr. George spoke with a great deal of patience: "Lady Edith's situation was entirely different and had nothing to do with..."

"I know it's not logical," she snapped. "I am a nurse. I understand it. But you _won't_ put me to sleep. Now, kindly check the state of my cervix and tell me that I am dilated enough and may push."

Doctor George looked at Mary, though his words were for Sybil. "Lady Sybil, your contractions are too far apart. Your body is still preparing itself for the labor."

"Oh, don't placate me," Sybil replied nastily. "I repeat: I am a nurse. Let's be anatomical, shall we? I expect a _modern doctor_ such as yourself should not be alarmed to hear the word cervix."

Doctor George smiled slightly. "I am not alarmed at your terminology. I just wish, Lady Sybil, to preserve your dignity for as long as possible–"

"You'll see it all soon enough!" Her voice rose dangerously. "Or do you plan on delivering my child with your eyes closed?"

"Sybil..." Mary tried to soothe. Everything felt backwards. Mary always caused arguments and Sybil diffused the arguments.

"No," Sybil whined, grasping Mary's hand in both of hers. "You don't understand. I want to push. I want to get this over with. If _he_," she said vehemently, "would just look at my bloody _cervix_–" This time, even Mary winced at her sister's words and the violent way Sybil's mouth formed the word _cervix_.

"Perhaps you should have a look, Doctor George," Mary offered, shrugging helplessly. Sybil was insistent and when Sybil became insistent, her stubbornness was without end.

He did, after Sybil pulled up her nightgown with a dramatic sigh. "Lady Sybil," he repeated, again with a graciousness Mary found astonishing, "I'm afraid that, as I suspected, it is not time to push yet. This labor will last more than an hour and is progressing perfectly normally."

Sybil's furrowed brow made it clear that if it were anatomically possible for her to examine her own underskirts, she would prefer to take her own accounting of the situation. Mary decided it was not the time to remind Sybil how Sybil herself had raved over Doctor George.

Mary saw her youngest sister through three more mild contractions. They annoyed Sybil more than anything else since she wanted to move this whole business along. Then, the contractions began to inch closer together and grow stronger after a time. Sybil grew weary with the effort it took _not _to push and Mary bit her tongue to keep from wondering aloud if Sybil's weariness at inaction was a metaphor for Sybil's life as a whole. But meanwhile, Sybil's moans broke Mary's heart into a thousand pieces until Mary glued it back together again for the next round. More contractions came, this time closer together, and much more painful. Doctor George asked politely if he could lift her skirts and see how things looked.

Sybil's response, with flaring nostrils, was nearly a roar: "_It's about bloody time!" _But when he explained that she could push when the next contraction came, her anger dissolved and she fell against the pillows and began to cry. "Mary," she wept, "I want Tom. I'm sorry; I know it's not proper but I want Tom. I don't know how to do this without him."

Mary glanced at Doctor George who only shrugged. Mary did not believe the ever-patient Doctor George would be able to withstand Sybil if she were denied having her husband at her bedside. "I will go get him," Mary promised. She pressed a kiss to Sybil's forehead. "You're so brave, darling. I'm so proud of you."

Sybil cried piteously for Tom.

* * *

><p>Tom wasn't drunk when Mary came for him, but he was still thankful for the two glasses of brandy the Dowager Countess had pushed on him as if it were medicine. On one hand, he was completely shocked to be called to Sybil's room. This wasn't their three bedroom flat, with the roof that leaked in one spot no matter how many times he patched it. There he could picture himself beside Sybil; but he could not picture it here, not in the Dowager Countess' home. There were rules. There was protocol. Still, the mistress of the house seemed quite unperturbed when Mary asked that he go upstairs. In fact, the woman who'd poured him two glasses of brandy–and a third for herself–flicked her hand at him to make haste.<p>

"Sybil," Tom murmured when he reached her, kneeling beside the bed. He pushed back the hair from her sweaty forehead and kissed the tip of her nose. "Well, are we going to have a baby now?" he asked as he winked, because he could see she'd been crying and he could always make her laugh. She did, but it was more of a hiccuping sob.

"I'm so glad you're here. I just couldn't do it without you," she whispered to him, as he reached for her hands and squeezed them.

Even after it all–the five years of waiting, the failed elopement, her family, his mother's disapproving eye during the time the banns were read, their wedding night, Robbie, and now a second pregnancy–her words arrowed straight into his heart, both poignant and surprising. And when she bore down to push for ten long beats (the longest beats in the history of the world) Tom could almost taste the anticipation in the room. It emanated from his wife in waves, the same way it had when Robbie was born and Tom had been scared bloodless because he wasn't a bloody doctor and how in the hell was he supposed to deliver a baby? It had suddenly hit him, as he ran around for the towels she had requested, that he was about to be a father.

A father.

She used to tease him, after they were first married, before she had become pregnant, that he'd been so stupid to wait five years for her. She would laugh, naked, her hands touching him just because she could, after they'd made love again, still finding it miraculous that they could, that this was allowed. "If you just would have told me that this was what I was missing out on," she would giggle, biting her lip between her teeth, "I would have made up my mind much sooner." Then she would kiss him.

He hadn't had the words, not then at least, to tell her that although it had been torturous to wait for her all those years, he was glad she had taken five years to make her decision. When she came to him, when she said yes, when they kissed, she had decided and she was ready. So he was not ashamed when her family treated them with contempt. When he brought her home to his mother's house, he didn't worry about the lumpy couch that had been sat on a million times too many, or the peeling wallpaper, or the size of her room. And when they found their flat, he didn't feel badly that this was all they could afford. And on their wedding night, when the roof leaked steadily into a bucket, he did not give it a second thought. She had taken five years to decide, to think it over and examine it every which way, and in the end, she'd chosen the life he'd offered her. She was not being foolish or rash. Her deliberation put him at ease so that when his mother made sarcastic comments about her clothing, he had not felt as if he had to apologize and Sybil had not looked at him as if he should apologize for his mother. He had been constantly surprised that _this _had been the life she chose, but she'd chosen it, and not on a whim either.

Once, days before they were married–when just touching hands, or brushing arms, or catching a stolen kiss away from his mother, left them feeling ecstatic–he'd curved his arm around her shoulders on that lumpy couch in his mother's front room. There must have been something in his face that gave him away because she'd touched his cheek with the palm of her hand, her thumb brushing his lips. "You're for me, Tom Branson," she'd whispered. There had been adoration in her eyes and suddenly he'd realized that he would disappoint her and she was saying that she didn't care, that she still adored him anyway. He'd realized he was going to be a husband.

A husband.

Later, when he would hold Robbie, he would feel that same nervousness when his son looked up at him, as if Tom had hung the moon. _But I will disappoint you, _Tom would think, and then he would remember Sybil's words, on that lumpy couch: _You're for me, Tom Branson_, and everything inside of him would smooth out. Sometimes he would even say aloud: _And you're for us, Robbie Branson. _

Tom didn't even know if Sybil remembered that moment before their marriage on that lumpy couch, but it had been his constant touchstone these past years and now, even now as she labored to bring their second child into the world, as she hurled insults at him (and very mightily, too), her face contorting as she threatened to _never even think of letting him touch her again. _But he remembered–_You're for me, Tom Branson_. It had taken her five years to be sure, to be completely certain. He was for her. In essence, she was stuck with him, whether she liked it or not. It was hard to tell, at this moment particularly, whether she liked being stuck with him, as she insulted him and yet gripped his hand so tightly.

Then she would lean against him and heave into his neck, trying not to cry, before Doctor George told her she had to push again. Tom could feel her words against his skin, "I can't. I can't." He wrapped one of his arms around her shoulders to brace her, his other hand entangled with hers by his heart, and he must have said a million times, "You can. I know you can. You are," until the next contraction hit. He'd never felt more helpless. Well, that wasn't exactly correct. He'd felt slightly more helpless the night _he'd _had to deliver his own son.

Then Doctor George (whom Tom decided must be a saint, never rising to Sybil's baiting) was calmly telling them that he could see the head (Tom tried not to focus on the fact that another man was between his wife's legs) and it would take one more count of ten. One more push.

"I can't," Sybil said against his neck. He was the only person she would ever say those words to. He was the only person she would ever turn to in the middle of the night and say: _I'm scared; I'm worried. _It had taken five years but she'd given all of herself, every fault, every vulnerability–and she'd never given those things to anyone before him.

"Sybil." He took her face in her hands. She was crying and didn't even know it. "My brave girl. You _are_. You _can_. You're almost finished."

So she bore down for ten beats (the longest yet) and suddenly Tom was hearing their baby's cry and it was a beautiful sound, the best sound, and Sybil leaned heavily against him as she began to laugh and laugh and laugh. When Doctor George laid the infant on Sybil's breast, Tom's arm around the both of them, Sybil was laughing and crying and crying and laughing as she murmured, "Hello, Maggie. We've waited so long to meet you."

Tom felt tears in the back of his throat as he thought: _You're for us, Maggie Branson. _And later, when he was alone with her, he would whisper those words against the soft skin of her forehead, reminding her that she was wanted and loved and those things were certainties.

_You're for us, Maggie Branson._

* * *

><p>It was Mary who telephoned Matthew, her voice filled with elation, to announce he had a new niece, to tell him that he had to come and see her right away because she was just that beautiful. She practically cooed into the phone. When Granny's chauffeur dropped Isobel at Crawley House, he would return with Matthew because it simply did not matter what the hour was, he had to see, he just <em>had<em> to see his perfect, adorable niece.

Matthew agreed and tried to match her tone in excitement. He _was _excited. But for weeks now, he'd been distracted and preoccupied while trying his hardest to keep Mary unaware of it. He said the right things; he still turned to her in the night; but then, after she let out her soft sigh and fell asleep, he lay in bed awake, his mind running in circles. He did not have a complete solution to the problem, but he was close. It sometimes frightened him how close he was. That's when he went dead inside, as he had during the war, when he had held a watch in his hands and ordered his men and himself up and out of the trenches, sending some of them to their deaths. His legs weren't the one dead parts of him when they told him he would never walk again, would never make love to a woman. He went dead then too. And life without Mary...well, that had always been a practice of coming alive and going dead, like swimming and choosing whether or not to come up for air.

When his mother came with the car, the excitement in Mary's voice was matched in Isobel's grin. But she sobered quickly, took her son's hand, and spoke low and urgently. "Mary knows. She knows Richard spoke to Gracie. I don't know how but she does."

"I'll take care of it," he said brusquely.

It worried his mother, his detachment, his lack of emotion. It reminded her of when he would come home on leave and someone would ask: _so, really, how are things out there? _and her son's eyes would flatten, the shine in them gone matte, and his lips would stiffen and then relax. Whatever answer he gave, his face was always a mask when he gave it.

"Matthew," she called before he could close the car door. "That's the response you gave me when I told you of the incident, before you demanded I not tell Mary of it."

"I'm aware of what I told you, Mother," he replied, and there was that mask again. Isobel longed for the face of the little boy whose every quirk she had memorized and catalogued, so that every shrug, mumble, lifted eyebrow, curled smile, grin, chuckle meant something. _Where are you, Matthew? _she wondered. "I expect you to honor our agreement," he continued.

"You expect me to honor our agreement? Matthew–" When she began to censor him, he shut the door rudely in her face. As the car drove off, she watched it for as long as she could. Matthew was many things but he was not rude. What was he planning? What was he going to do? She felt arthritic with worry, as if anxiety knotted her knuckles and knees, bent her back with the weight of it all.

All she could do was go inside and watch over her sleeping granddaughter.

* * *

><p>Mary did not think she could be happier if she tried, sitting on the small chaise in the room that Sybil and Tom shared at Granny's house. Granny had already held her third great-grandchild and pronounced her "perfectly delightful." Then she had gently passed the baby, who had Sybil's almond shaped eyes and wisps of blonde hair, back to her mother. "You did a marvelous job," Granny had told Sybil before leaning forward to press one of her rare kisses to her granddaughter's cheek. Then she'd walked around the bed, out of her way since she had claimed exhaustion and should have been heading toward the door, and put her hand on Tom's shoulder. He had looked dazed and shocked and Granny had to swallow a chuckle at his expression. "You've also done a marvelous job, Tom," she told him politely. "You've proved me wrong in every way possible and though it happens but rarely, I cannot help but be glad that I have been bested." Watching Tom, Mary had thought someone could have knocked him over with the feather. But Granny hadn't finished; it was obvious her exhaustion and the emotion of welcoming another great-grandchild to her family, in her own home no less, had broken even her stiff upper lip, at least for the night. "You are a wonderful writer. But you are an even better husband and father. Do not let anyone ever tell you differently," she smiled slightly. "Even me."<p>

"Milady–" he had begun, stuttering. Sybil's and Mary's eyes had met with glee at his nervousness. The truth was that, during their stay, he'd gone out of his way _not _to say her name because there was no clarity over what he should call her.

"I'd prefer it if you would call me _Violet_ or _Granny_. You've made my granddaughter very happy. You've given me two wonderful great-grandchildren. I believe we are past pleasantries." Her raised eyebrows had kept her pronouncement from becoming too sentimental. She had squeezed his shoulder before turning to go; it was a lot to ask for a man to take in a daughter and Violet Crawley's approval in one day.

"All right," Tom stammered out. "Sorry about the linens then, Granny."

Granny had chuckled and murmured something about his wonderful Irish sense of humor and glided out of the room with one of her secret smiles.

"Did she just..." Tom could not get his words out. "Did the Dowager Countess just ask a chauffeur to call her _Granny_?"

"You're not a chauffeur, Tom," Mary replied, arching her brow. "We were all there when you burst into the drawing room that day and Sybil announced you were a _journalist._" They all laughed, even Sybil, her eyes still on Maggie. "And now you're writing a book!"

"Didn't you once tell me," Sybil asked, swaying even as she sat with Maggie in her arms, "that _you wouldn't always be a chauffeur_? Now, if Granny insisting you call her _Granny _doesn't prove that the world is changing and has changed, then I don't know what does." Then she went back to staring at Maggie. It was hard for Sybil to take her eyes off of the baby–for all of them really, Tom, and Mary as well. And when Matthew came in, knocking cautiously, and three joyful voices bade him enter, his walk was one of trepidation as he stepped towards the bed to view his niece.

"She's beautiful," he murmured, almost reverently.

"All right," Sybil said, with amusement in her voice. "Mary, come take the baby. Matthew, sit next to your wife. Tom," she beckoned him and he took her hand. "We've waited so long to tell you; I can just hardly wait another second."

"What?" Mary asked, her arms rocking the precious package; she couldn't stop looking at Maggie–the rosebud mouth, the eyelashes, the fair eyebrows.

"Her name," Tom answered. "Her full name."

"As you know," Sybil began formally. "We've named her Margaret but we'll call her Maggie. This time we wanted to pick a name no one else in the family had..."

"Though, darling, you do have to admit, Robbie has made his moniker his own," Tom interrupted. Sybil glared at him. "All right, all right."

Sybil continued, "So her first name is _Margaret_..."

"But we'll only really use that when she's in trouble," Tom confided.

Sybil rolled her eyes at him but then looked up at him adoringly. "Mary, we know how you chose Grace's middle name, how you considered what qualities you wanted for her."

"Yes," Mary replied automatically. She was still watching the baby, smiling as Maggie awakened. Mary had no idea where this conversation was going but Matthew, not as distracted as his wife, did have a clue. He put his arm around her.

"Well, you see," Sybil continued and there were tears in her voice, thickening it so that Mary looked up at her sister. "Her name is to be Margaret Mary Branson."

"Oh." Mary's quiet syllable was a surprised sigh. She was shocked.

"Tom," Sybil implored, pulling him by the hand so he sat beside her on the bed. "You're the writer. You're the one who's good with words. Tell her why."

"Well," Tom tilted his head back and forth as if considering the issue with a great deal of thought. "When she gets into a spot of trouble, _Margaret Mary_ does have a particular ring to it." He demonstrated in his strictest voice: "_Margaret Mary, if I catch you kissing a boy before you're thirty, I'll lock you in the attic, just see if I won't.._" He paused. "See?" he asked cheerfully.

"Be serious," Sybil begged.

Tom cleared his throat and met Mary's eyes. In that moment, she was aware that he _knew _about the small library. She did not know if it had been Matthew or Sybil who told, but it didn't matter; he was not looking at her with pity. There was just more depth in his blue eyes when they met her brown ones. "Mary," he said, and as soon as she heard his tone, they both seemed to realize that they truly were brother and sister now. "You are the strongest woman, the strongest person we know. But your strength is not a brittle one. It doesn't make you hard. There is nothing you will not do for the people you love. And when you love, you love completely." He paused, wondering how she would take his final point. "You are a survivor. But more importantly, you are thriver." Mary was quietly weeping, turning her cheek into her shoulder so the tears would not fall onto Maggie, her namesake. "We want Maggie to be strong and not brittle. We want Maggie to love others well, with her whole self, with her whole heart. We want Maggie to thrive, as you have done."

"I–" Mary opened her mouth with no idea what she would say. She saw that Sybil was crying as well. "Here, Matthew. Take the baby. Mind her head," she coached him. He looked more than nervous at the prospect of holding such a tiny baby. "Just cradle her," she encouraged. "Support her head. There, see?" and then she left the chaise and went to Sybil, skipping the pinky for an embrace that lasted minutes. There were no words. None. Except: "Thank you. Thank you." She whispered into her sister's hair: "I love you."

"And I love you," Sybil replied. "I always have."

Then Mary went to Tom and she hugged him as a sister would hug a brother, holding on tightly. "You've completely humbled me, Thomas Branson." She kissed his cheek, leaving his cheek wet from her tears.

"I told you she would cry," Sybil proclaimed triumphantly. Everyone laughed except for Matthew, who seemed afraid to breathe. "Matthew, you're doing wonderfully. Believe me, look how happy she is in Uncle Matthew's arms," Sybil encouraged. As if on cue, Maggie let out a little coo.

When Mary sat beside him again, looking over his shoulder at the baby, he felt a little better. He relaxed enough to look at his niece, to really look. She was so tiny, her fingers slender and long, but so tiny. Her fingernails were smaller than the smallest seashell he'd ever seen. Her coloring was Tom's but her features were all Sybil–the nose, the almond eyes, the plump lips. He'd called her _beautiful_ earlier because he knew that was what he was supposed to say, but he saw that it was true, as she blinked up at both Matthew and Mary, taking her aunt and uncle in. She yawned, causing to Matthew to murmur, "Oh, you must be sleepy, darling. It's been such a long day for you. You'll want your mama." He stood carefully and took the two steps to Sybil with a grace he had never possessed before in his life.

"She's Mum and I'm Da," Tom corrected. "Remember, she's half Irish."

Maggie let out a wail. She wanted to be fed before she fell asleep. "Yes, she obviously _is_ half Irish," Mary teased. "We'll give you two–you _three_–some privacy."

On the ride home, Mary dozed on Matthew's shoulder, her mouth still smiling. She'd forgotten Marianne and even Richard, for the moment. But Matthew had not. His hand was on her knee and he, of course, was happy too. He loved his niece already. But as he held her, as he felt the surge of love well up inside of him, his answer to the problem that had kept him awake at night came to him.

_What lengths would he go to in order to protect his family?_

The answer had come to him quite suddenly as he had held Maggie.

In fact, the answer had come to him like a shot.

* * *

><p>Not much later, Mary curled into him, like a kitten, somehow fitting the belly too. She was humming in her throat, still feeling the elation of a new baby, and of course, the honor of her name. "Wasn't she gorgeous?" Mary asked. "Wasn't she?"<p>

She'd already asked him twice and he had answered affirmatively. But he did not mind indulging her. "Yes. She is gorgeous. What I am concerned about is her size."

Mary lifted her head to grin at him. "What about her size?"

"She was so tiny," he whispered, smiling into her hair as she lay back down. "I've never seen a baby so tiny. Was Gracie that small?"

All the while he thought: _How can I hold my wife and know what I am going to do?_

Mary's lips curved. "Of course she was that tiny. And thank God. It isn't exactly easy giving birth to a regular sized baby, which Maggie is, let alone a large one."

He winced as all men do when faced with the _logistics_, his forehead wrinkling. But then, as if to prove he was man enough to handle this talk, his face returned to mostly expressionless, except for his mouth, which still held a bit of a curl in the corner. "I just can't imagine Gracie being that small." There was wonder in his face, excitement, nerves. He and Mary had made a child between them and, God willing, he would hold that child just after he or she was born.

And the whole time, through the haze of wonderment of Mary calling him _Uncle Matthew_, and Matthew responding that he was already an uncle to Robbie, and their shared laughter and her ever growing round belly–a part of him, a corner of his heart, was cold and dead.

He told himself: _What I do, I do for them. _

"I can promise you," Mary replied with a smile, "Gracie was _that _small."

He was forced back into the present. "But...Sybil was...she was rather...large," he stammered. "I...I don't understand why she was so...giant if the baby was so small."

Mary gave him a good natured smack. "There are other things inside of there besides a baby, you dolt. I suppose you haven't gotten to that chapter yet in Doctor George's book."

He laughed. "I may have skipped that particular chapter." His strokes grew bolder, reaching further down her back. He did not want her to think anything was wrong or different between them. Because it wasn't. Yet he felt as if he had been playing a game, even lying, for weeks. What he had to do, what he must do, was wholly separate from her, from their family, yet completely connected. "Will our baby be that small? What if I break her?"

"Or him?" Mary reminded him, nearly purring under his touch. "Probably. And you won't break our baby. You'll be a natural, just as you were with Grace. And if you aren't, you'll have to learn, just as I did."

He kissed her, just a light brushing of her lips. "You're sure?"

"I am," she said so somberly he had to believe her. "I'm so tired but I'm completely awake." She wound her arms around his neck. Her belly pressed lightly into his. "Is there anything you can do to help me with that?"

He kissed her, as he normally would have done. But his eyes did not twinkle as they typically did when she was in one of her teasing moods. His mouth was urgent but at the same time, it felt as if he was trying to convince her of something.

She pulled away, breathlessly. "Matthew," she murmured. "Is something wrong?"

His eyes flickered to her mouth. "No, not at all." He kissed her again, sucking on her lip. For the first time she did not moan but pulled back.

"You're lying," she whispered in the dark. "What is going on, Matthew?"

"It doesn't concern you," he replied, and just as they had done earlier with his mother, his eyes shuttered themselves against her. His response was cold.

She was quiet for a moment. His comment felt like a slap to a child who had reached for something that did not belong to her. "Matthew..."

"You may not be tired but I am," he replied shortly and turned on his side, away from her.

She sat up, flicked on her lamp. "_You know_," she accused. "You know about Richard speaking to Grace." He did not confirm or deny her accusations, which was confirmation itself. "_When_ did Isobel tell you? Right when we got home, I presume?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It _does_ matter." She slipped out of bed. "How _dare _you, how _dare you _tell me that this matter _doesn't concern me!"_

Matthew sat up, resigned for a fight. But his lips were stubborn and there were no apologies in his eyes. After his mother had told him about the incident, had told him Richard's rumblings of _mama and papa not being home_, he knew that Richard was watching them–their house, their bank accounts, and more.

And Matthew had known then that somehow, someway, Carlisle would discover that Grace was the result of the violence done to Mary, and then it would be over. This knowledge of the eventuality of Carlisle's discovery was not something he could explain. He had never been able to explain why he'd dodged right instead of left and missed a German bullet by a hair. Or why, just before he had set off to New York in late March, a feeling of anticipation, a feeling that his life would be changed, had ballooned in his chest. He had never been able to explain, holding Grace, watching her lip tremble and knowing: _You are mine. _But _now_, ten years older than the boy who had first arrived at Downton, he knew that the most important moments in life were often unexplainable. He'd been a cynic then, when he had first come here. Mary had been right when she urged him _to have more faith_ so long ago. Because when she had walked into the Crawley House that first time and had said in that belittling way of hers, _I wouldn't want to push in, _some part of him had known–_this is the woman for me. _But he had been too young, too soft yet, to believe in something as silly as that.

But now his gut, the one he now trusted, told him that Carlisle's discovery of Grace's parentage would happen in only a matter of time. He also knew he could not tell Mary this. He knew his wife; he knew her strength; he'd seen it; he'd read it in the letters to Granny. But the thought of Carlisle learning the truth would break her. Even the _thought _of it would turn her world upside down. She would not be able to bear it. He did not know if he would be able to bear it either.

"Say something!" she shrieked at him. "How could you not tell me this?"

"I didn't want you to worry–"

She held up her hand and closed her eyes. "Although I don't agree with you not telling me so I wouldn't worry...That is _not _why I am upset. You just said to me," she whispered and then her voice went guttural, instinctual, "_that this matter didn't concern me_. She is my daughter, too. And he...he...but Grace is my daughter. I agreed to _share_ her with you, to be your partner in raising her. _She _is a matter that concerns me."

"You just love to remind me that she is all yours, don't you?" he retorted, purposefully nastily. He wanted to hurt her, to save her from a greater hurt. It felt noble, and it felt wrong.

"_Aren't you listening_?" she cried. "That's not what I said. And I have _never_ said anything like what you're claiming because I _do not _think about it that way, on any level."

When he did not reply except to turn on his side away from her again, as if to sleep, she thought only: _oh no you don't._

"You must think I'm a bloody idiot," she said much more calmly. "You forget how long we've known each other, how well I know you. You're purposely being nasty. You're pushing me away. Rather poorly too, I have to admit. Since I am the queen of that particular game."

He snorted but did not acknowledge her any more than that.

"What have you planned?" she whispered with real fear in her voice. "Why can't you tell me?"

He was silent. His back was all she could see of him.

"Matthew," she murmured shakily and crawled towards him, pressing her hand to his shoulder blade. "Promise me you aren't going to–"

"I _cannot_ promise you that," he replied, and then he stood, walked into his dressing room, and shut the door. She heard the click of the lock.

The word had never been spoken aloud in the room. But Mary knew that some words could hang in the air, unsaid intentions.

She lay down, hugging her stomach.

The word circled around her brain, down her throat as if she'd swallowed it. It was on her skin and in her hair. It chanted itself into her ears, this never-spoken word, even though she did not want to hear it.

_Murder. Murder. Murder._

* * *

><p><em>AN: So, welcome to the world Margaret Mary Branson! Also, how about that Matthew, huh? How about him? So *he* knew about the Richard incident? And now...What? Will he go through with it? Should he? How will Mary handle this? Click that little review button. You know you want to! 400..._


	44. Chapter 44

_A/N: Funny story. When I sent the last chapter (the one the caused quite the uproar) to my lovely beta, _**_Faeyero_**_, she said to me, "YOUR READERS ARE GOING TO FREAK OUT AT THIS ENDING." My response was, and I quote, "nah." All I can say, is that as a writer, I never do anything for shock value. I'm just writing the story. And also as a writer, I am not the best _reader _of my own story. That's why having such an incredible beta, like Faeyero, is important. I just want to thank everyone who reviewed. I believe I messaged back everyone who allows messaging. I also want you to know that I respect your opinions and welcome them. This chapter is a little shorter than the more recent chapters. Originally, I had planned it to include more but plot wise the break makes sense here (trust me). I did not do it to make you go crazy. The upside is that if it had gone as I planned, you wouldn't be reading anything until Friday. This way, you have this chapter today, and hopefully (still have not written it...excuse me while I have a minor panic attack...) 45 on Friday. Thank you again to Faeyero. She is the best. She also claims I should expect some reaction to the end of this chapter. I promised her that I would henceforth defer to her in all matters when it comes to readers reactions since I am obviously ridiculous._

* * *

><p>Chapter Forty Four<p>

That first night after Matthew's dramatic, unspoken intention filled their bedroom, Mary cursed him. _Obviously_, he was exhausted and stressed. _Obviously_, the pressure of returning home and the desire to protect his family had caused some hyper-masculine reaction. She wouldn't even stay up and worry about the matter because it was simply mad. _Mad_. And her husband was not mad, not mad at all. She would not waste a second of anxiousness on this momentary insanity, though a wild part of her wanted to pound on his dressing room door until he opened it and apologized for his childish tantrum, or beat on the door until her knuckles bled. But why would she? It was madness. It was stupid.

Even still, that night, alone in bed, she dreamt of slippery, skittering rocks cutting open her feet, the heat of panic in her throat, as she ran towards the cliff. Lightning illuminated the scene in front of her–Richard's shoes half off the edge, Matthew's hands clutching at his collar, even as Matthew pushed him backwards further, making it clear that it was Matthew's mercy that kept Richard from plummeting to his death. Mary tried to scream _no _but thunder boomed and robbed her of the chance to warn the man she loved that he was about to sacrifice himself. With Matthew's final push, Richard fell–but not before his teeth gleamed in a feral smile of triumph, as he held onto his foe and took Matthew over the cliff with him.

Though Mary woke up with a wet, tear stained pillow, she knew her dream was ridiculous (and clichéd on top of it all) because _this whole thing was mad _and today, when she spoke to Matthew, things would be back to normal. They would clarify it all and the whole thing would be put to rest. She hurried from bed and found him shaving in the bathroom, half his face covered in cream. He didn't glance at her when she entered, though she stood behind him, watching him carefully in the mirror–wondering if this man was her husband or the stranger who had slept in his dressing room like a baboon the night before.

"About last night..." she began in a very calm, very patient tone. She wanted to fold her arms in front of her chest, to thrust up her chin and show him just what she thought about his behavior. But she didn't. Because wasn't marriage about humility and understanding and forgiving your spouse's momentary fits of insanity? Hadn't there been _something _like _that _in those vows?

"Yes?" Matthew asked as he tilted his chin up to shave his throat. Though Mary understood the gesture was necessary in order to shave, she also noted the arrogance behind it since without the razor and lather, it was one of her own most infamous physical cues of condescension. "What of it?"

_What of it?_

_What of it? _

"You didn't mean it," she insisted, trying desperately not to raise her eyebrow and push back her shoulders in defense against his very defensiveness. Didn't he understand that she was giving him every opportunity to take it all back? Didn't he understand that he was acting crazy? Still, he couldn't actually be serious.

Could he?

"What didn't I mean?" he responded after a moment of thought. He was measuring his words, this stranger before her. Didn't he _know, _didn't he _understand _that she knew all the tricks? She'd _invented _them, for God's sake. And her tricks were reserved only for serious situations. Didn't he _know _that?

"Don't be dense, Matthew," she snapped. "It doesn't suit you at all." She folded her arms in front of her and cocked her hip and didn't care at all that she looked both ridiculous in her nightgown and completely defensive, especially while nineteen weeks pregnant.

He washed off the remaining shaving cream with cold water, patting his face dry with the towel at his side. His cheeks might have been soft and smooth but his jaw was as hard and as stubborn as Mary had ever seen it. "I don't know _what_ you're referring to."

"I asked you to promise me something last night and you refused. I want you to promise me now." She was still calm; she was still _trying_ to be reasonable. There would be no hysterics because again, this was simply madness and she may be pregnant but she still had all her wits about her and to think that Matthew would...that he could...It was _mad_.

He turned to her, cupping both of her shoulders in his hands, leaning his head down a bit so that they were eye to eye. The gesture was neither tender nor cruel. "No," he replied, before releasing her and turning quickly from her, walking out of the bathroom.

"Matthew!" She tried not to shriek as she followed after him. She knew it was hideously common and ugly to nag one's husband, but_ really_. "So you're going to kill him, then," she retorted, arching her eyebrow. At least she had logic on her side. It was ridiculous even to speak of this whole nasty business. "You're going to murder a man."

Matthew began to dress. He did not look at her. "Those are your words, not mine."

"Exactly!" she cried, throwing up her hands. "You can't even _say_ it, so how do you expect to actually _do_ it? Why can't you promise me not to do this?"

"I can say plenty of words. I just do not wish to speak of it to you." He buttoned up his shirt, his back to her.

"Bully for you then," she quipped, stepping in front of their bedroom door. "Because we are going to talk about this."

"No," he replied, his jaw set like stone, "we aren't. This is my business. This is my choice. It has nothing to do with you."

"Oh, right," she muttered sarcastically. "I forgot the part where it had nothing to do with me...Matthew, _what are you thinking_?" Her last question felt desperate as it left her lips.

"I'm thinking of this family," he snapped. "I'm thinking of your welfare. If something should happen, and you're questioned..."

Her mouth fell open. Her knees felt weak and it was pure strength of will that kept her standing. He was serious. He was _actually_ _serious_. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to slap him across the face so hard that Matthew, _her_ Matthew, would come back to her and Gracie and the baby she carried. But his jerky movements, the way his eyes darted away from her, made it clear that he had already steeled himself against the usual weapons–tears, pleas, rantings. She wanted to do all those things and more. But she'd _invented_ this game, for God's sake, and she knew how to win, even with such high stakes–the highest, really.

Mary stepped away from the door, her hands curving around her belly. "Are you planning to murder Richard today, then?"

Matthew did not reply.

"Don't worry," she said scathingly, as nastily as she could manage at the moment. "As a solicitor, you should know that a wife cannot testify against her husband in court. So it's safe to tell me. Are you planning to murder Richard today or not?"

He'd flinched at her words. He did not want to imagine her in court. He did not want her involved at all. _Why couldn't she see that? Why couldn't she understand?_

Mary was no dummy. For a moment, Matthew's mask slipped, and she read every single thought on his face. _You are an idiot, _she thought. _Someone has to save you from yourself. _"Maybe you could wait until next week, then? So you could be at the appointment where we'll hear our child's heartbeat? So, just in case, you're sent to prison or worse, I can tell your son or daughter that you were there at that appointment, that he or she was at least important enough to hold off on cold blooded murder for one week."

His hands paused on his tie because they were about to tremble. "Mary," he warned through his teeth. Then he finished his tie, put on his jacket, and looked at her, waiting for her to move.

"You'll have to promise me that you won't kill him today or physically remove me from this door, Matthew," she replied, her eyes even, her jaw just as hard as his. He walked towards her and, for a moment, she almost flinched, thinking he might shove her aside. After all, she did not know this man.

"It won't be today," he whispered. They were close enough to embrace but that was the furthest thing from either of their minds.

"Damn you, Matthew Crawley," she whispered back, as harshly as she could. "I never asked for this. I never wanted this when you walked towards us that day in the park. Damn you."

His hand reached past her his for the doorknob but he paused there. "Well, you married me anyway. You're having my child anyway."

"_You_ are not the man that I married." This time she didn't bother to keep the tears from her voice. "I hope that _he _comes back to his family before _you _do irrevocable damage."

* * *

><p>They slept in the same bed that night, but she hugged one side of the bed while he hugged the other. Mary was horribly uncomfortable and needed an extra pillow to cushion her stomach but she refused to turn and reach for it. She was not used to sharing a bed with a stranger and for all intents and purposes that's who this man was.<p>

When she did sleep, she was back in the small library, on the floor, as always. Her vision seemed hazy and her head ached from where Richard had banged it into books–priceless first editions–before letting her fall to the floor, like a thing he was tired of. She was used up, dressed in a torn red gown; she could feel the stickiness of her own blood and whatever he'd left of himself between her thighs. Her arms ached from his nails. It was the same dream, an old dream, and the hurt was piercing as it always was.

But it was not the same dream.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man's shoe, a man's leg. When she raised her eyes further, she saw it was Matthew, and for a moment, she wanted to recoil and hide herself from him. He could not see her like this; she could not stand it. But then she remembered that this was _Matthew_ and he was here to help. He was always here to help. Except when she called to him, he did not hear her. His eyes were on the man across the room. The man who had not finished buttoning his pants. The man who had marked her in every way that mattered. _Richard_. And were those guns? In their hands? It was hard to tell. Her head ached; it just ached. She thought she might pass out as she took in the whole scene.

But then her heart stopped. She felt it lurch and restart again, like an engine on the brink of dying, when she saw little Gracie girl standing between the men. Mary knew the smell of those curls, the ticklish spot on Gracie's ribs. She knew how to elicit giggles and where Gracie's dimples would appear when she did. Mary tried to call to her girl. She tried to make her vocal cords rub together to form Grace's name. But Mary had no voice here. She was in a world without sound.

Except there was sound–a child's scream for her papa, the outrageous blast of a gun...In her dream, like a coward, Mary closed her eyes against it all, too afraid to see, to bear witness.

She woke to Matthew gently shaking her. Her face was wet with tears. She was trembling and she could not catch her breath. "Just breathe," he murmured to her, rubbing her back. She couldn't take it anymore, this stranger telling her to _just breathe_, trying to comfort her when _he_ was the one causing her nightmares and breaking her heart all at once. Mary stood shakily and walked into the bathroom, bracing herself against the closed door.

She thought she might retch, but in the end, she didn't. She sobbed into her own hands while her shoulders shook under the pressure of it all. There _had_ to be some way to force Matthew off this path. She just hadn't found it yet–and she was running out of ideas. She wondered how a nightmare had become her current reality. She wondered how this had become her life. She wondered how she could get out of it–this life, this nightmare. Then she wiped her tears and went back to bed. The man who looked like Matthew was lying on his back. He was not asleep.

"I'm sorry," he whispered when she slid beneath the covers.

"Have you changed your mind?" she asked. It was dark. She stared up at the ceiling. There was nothing else to say.

"No," he murmured after a moment. "No, I haven't changed my mind. But, Mary–" He tried to touch her cheek, wet again with tears. She pushed his hand away, like an overtired child. She _was _tired. She did not know how much more fight she had left in her.

"Then you're not sorry," she replied, before turning away from him. Her eyes were wide open and terrified. "You're not sorry at all."

No, there would be no more sleep tonight.

* * *

><p>The tenseness and the terseness between them spilled over into the house. How could it not? Grace was at times clingy or more disobedient than usual. Sometimes, when Mary rocked her girl for a nap, she would think: <em>I'm so sorry, darling. I never wanted this for you, a home filled with hopelessness like this. I don't know what to do.<em>

Mary had never felt more defeated in her life–not when she was passed over by her father in favor of Matthew, not when Pamuk entered her bedroom, not when she agreed to a loveless engagement, not even on the floor of the small library. Now there was so much more than herself at stake. Yet she felt as if she'd already lost, as if she'd already failed.

Isobel tried to help. She had asked Mary what she could do, but Mary had only pressed her lips together and shaken her head. "I can't," she'd whispered, torturously. "I can't tell you. I _want_ to but I can't." Isobel wanted to take Matthew by the ear and pinch him until he listened, but her son was a man–a man with a heart of stone, apparently–who pecked his daughter's cheek absentmindedly when he returned home from work, though she'd run to him, and then told her to go run and play, a man who yelled at his child when she disobeyed just because she wanted his attention, a man who missed the shock and hurt on his child's face, and a man who ignored his wife and avoided the circles beneath her eyes. This was _not _her son.

One night, Mary sat on the divan reading–or trying to read–Doctor George's draft, to avoid sleeping and dreaming, when Matthew–or the impostor (as she'd begun to think of him)–hurried down the stairs in his pajamas. "Where are the letters, Mary?" he asked as loudly as he dared at this time of night.

"What letters?" she replied tonelessly, hopelessly. "_My_ letters?"

"_My _letters," he corrected, taking the book out of her hands and snapping it shut. "Those were given to me."

"Those were written _by_ me," she stated calmly. "They were written by a mother who would do anything for her child. I let my husband read them, share in the intimacy of that, because I believed that he had the same priorities."

"Where are the letters, Mary?" he repeated. She wondered if it hurt to always be holding his jaw like that, so hard, his teeth clenched together. She wondered if he would have to see the dentist after killing Richard.

"Where is my husband?" she asked softly, walking past him to the stairs. "_Where is the father of my children?_"

He followed her, dogged her heels, but she felt weightless, as if she were floating, as if she were a ghost. She could not remember the last time she'd slept without a nightmare. "I'm right here!" he insisted, rather loudly, once they were behind the closed door of their bedroom.

"Are you still planning to kill Richard?" she asked in response, pulling a nightgown out of the wardrobe. When he did not answer, she shook her head. "You are not my husband. You are not the father of my children. Those letters do not belong to you."

He turned her around, caging her against the wardrobe. She flinched, turning her eyes away from him, as if ashamed of him–ashamed of what he was capable of. "Mary–" he began. Was she actually afraid of him? After everything? How could she be afraid of him? "I would _never_ hurt you. You _must _know that."

"You are," she whispered, sliding beneath his arm. "You _are_ hurting me. Right now. You have been hurting me ever since you decided to kill him. And I don't _know _anything anymore."

"Don't you understand that I am doing this for you, for Grace? He'll find out that he, that she's..." He was exhausted. He had no words left. He missed his wife but he could not be cold the way he needed to be and hold her in the middle of the night. The two were incompatible.

"I do not understand," she murmured. She didn't bother to change in the bathroom. She was tired and in pain and who cared if he saw her naked now? She slipped into bed. For the first time, she realized she would probably lose, that she would not be able to pull him back from this edge of madness. "Are you killing him because he raped me or because he might find out that Gracie is a product of the small library? I want to be clear."

She frustrated him so badly. "Both." _Neither_, he thought.

"Well," she sighed, "much as I wish you could, you can't kill a memory. Richard _did _rape me in the small library and _nothing _you do now can change that–and furthermore, I wouldn't want you to change it because the small library gave me Gracie. So you aren't doing this for me." She paused. She wanted to cry but found she did not have the energy for it, as they both lay on their backs, so very far from one another. "If you are doing it for Gracie, on the possibility that he _might _find out...Well, it does not make much sense to me, how you have to become a monster in order to kill one. I do not want her father to be a monster."

"You think I'm doing it for myself," he stated softly.

"Yes, I do." She turned on her side, away from him, admitting defeat. "You promised me until after the appointment. The appointment is tomorrow. Then..."

"You think I don't know what I'm doing? What I'm risking?" he asked. He laid a hand on her shoulder. "I see the way you look at me, when you manage to get up the courage. I _know_ you. I've always known you. You're thinking of leaving, of taking the children and leaving."

She turned over to face him. "I'm not a liar. I won't lie to you. I have thought about it."

"How could you even consider..." Pain twisted each word until his belly was no longer filled with ice but panic. "_I love you._ I love them. I don't see what one has to do with the other."

"Oh, Matthew," she cried. "They have everything to do with one another. Do you think you'll be the same? After you shoot him, or stab him, or whatever you've planned to do with him?"

"I've killed before," he replied stubbornly. "I know what it costs a person to kill a boy, someone's son, someone's husband, someone's lover, someone whose only fault was that he wore the wrong uniform. Killing an evil man can't cost more than that, Mary. It just _can't_."

He'd been moving closer to her, as if he expected or needed her comfort. She pushed him violently away. "No! The boy who came to Downton would never consider doing this. The man I loved at Downton would never have done this, the one I sent off to war, the one who came back wounded, the one I kissed while he was promised to another..._none_ of those men would have considered doing what you are planning to do. Neither would the man who found me in the small library. Oh, he would have wanted to. Certainly. He was only human, after all. But he wouldn't have. And the man I fell in love with all over again in New York? He _especially_ would not do it. Because that man? The _best _man? He loved me and my child and the child we made together. He was a husband and _a father_, not a murderer."

He reached for her again and she let him tuck his head against her neck and breathe in and out for a moment because even now she loved him helplessly; she could not deny him. They were cursed. Why could they never get it right?

His words–pressed into her skin, his breath hot–made the air around them pulse with the deepest kind of aching. "I don't want to go to this appointment tomorrow, fighting like this." She heard the curl of desperation in his words, felt how he touched her waist with a hand that wanted and was afraid.

She bit back something between a sob and a laugh. "I don't want any of this, Matthew."

"You can barely look at me," he whispered. "Do you think that makes me happy? Do you think I can't read it all over your face? That if I did this, you would take the children and leave?" His face shifted up. His nose brushed her chin and still he leaned into her, waiting, waiting for her arms to come around him, waiting, waiting to be held in return.

"I've thought about it," she admitted. "I don't want the man who rocks them to sleep, who kisses them goodnight, who tucks them in to have blood on his hands." She paused. She was weeping. "I don't think you want that for them either."

"Mary, I–" He slid his hands up to her cheeks, wet with tears, and then back into her hair and pressed his lips to hers. Her hands went to his wrists, squeezed there for a moment, but he could not tell if she meant to pull him closer or push him away. For a moment, a brief aching moment, she kissed him back with the same desperation that he felt in his belly–with hunger and fear and an uncertain kind of love. It could have been years ago; they could have been dancing–the show that flopped; she was his stick and the yearning was so thick, it had made them dizzy so they'd had no choice but to pull one another closer, and closer, and closer still. The kiss felt like that, only worse. But then she broke away, breathing heavily.

"I can't," she whispered brokenly. "You see, I love my husband and I could never betray him like that." It was all she had left to say, to give, to offer, to threaten. She gently removed his hands from her cheeks and he moved away from her, though he did not want to.

Tomorrow, they would go see Doctor George and hear their baby's heartbeat and after that...She did not know.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I so loved hearing from everyone last time, new voices and the golden oldies. This one hurt to write...so if it hurt to read...Know you're not alone. _Reactions?__


	45. Chapter 45

_A/N: First, we ALL need to thank, **Faeyero**, for beta-ing this chapter, despite having plans, despite having a life, because I had promised you guys would have it on Friday. Please, a round of applause for Faeyero! If you review, you should probably thank her because instead of a nice dinner, it meant a greasy burger, just so this chapter could be here for you. She is the best._

_Secondly, I have a tumblr. I have no idea how to work it but find me there using la donna ingenua (no spaces DOT tumbler) .com. Follow me...or whatever! :)_

_Next, for the first time, I am not answering reviews (for the last chapter). I tried to start but the thing is that it would be impossible to do that without giving away **this** chapter. I have held my tongue on this whole murderous Matthew plot-line because I knew where it was going the entire time. If you're interested, I intend to detail why this whole arc HAD to happen and why it HAD to happen the way it did on my tumblr. But I will be back to answering every review, starting NOW._

_Finally, for every reviewer who freaked out over this plot-line (and understandably so), even the anonymous reviewer who threatened to stop reading (forty four chapters in? :( ), I would not only LOVE to hear what you have to say after this chapter, after Matthew gets his say, but I need to hear it. I really do. I was pretty sure everyone hated me._

_It's not over yet, this part of the story, but it will be soon. As for the story as a whole, if you know baseball, we are in the seventh inning stretch here, and I am dedicated to finishing this but I am tired too. And so is Faeyero. So please, press that review button. Please._

* * *

><p>Chapter Forty Five<p>

Matthew woke to a pounding headache–as if he'd over-indulged the night before, when all he'd wanted was his wife (and to be fair, all his wife wanted was her husband)–and the sound of tiny feet sneaking into the bedroom. He and Mary would have to talk about that. Was Gracie ready for a real bed?

Then he remembered that he and Mary weren't talking about anything, really, that he'd chosen to put their future on hold with his murderous aspirations. They didn't talk about whether their daughter was ready for a real bed. Instead, she begged him not to kill a man that he'd wanted to kill since finding Mary in the small library–or maybe, if he was honest, before that. Then, though, when just the thought of Sir Richard marrying Mary had had Matthew wanting to strike out, he had told himself it was jealousy and moreover, a jealousy he had not even been entitled to. When he had seen Mary in Central Park, years later, and had realized what Gracie was a product of, he'd wanted to kill the man again. But he had been busy–busy convincing Mary _this _time would be different, busy building a life with his wife and his child and their child-to-be. Then, in Downton, there had been conflict with the family to distract him but Carlisle had shown up and threatened his wife and though Matthew had wanted to kill him then, viciously and cruelly, he hadn't. He had warned Carlisle. He had kept Tom in the room. He had repeated _I am a husband and a father _until his rage had subsided. But then...

Tracing how he'd made his way here made his head hurt more, so he thought of Gracie. Even with his eyes closed and head aching, he smiled–waiting for those little feet to make their way over to him, where Gracie would rub her sleepy eyes, push back her hair unkempt from bed, and stick out her lip as she asked, "Papa?" in a pitiful tone he could not refuse.

But that was not what happened.

Instead, he heard those same feet walk to Mary's side of the bed and a whispered, "Mama!" Mary did not wake as easily as Matthew and Gracie knew it, so she shook her mother's shoulder and repeated her hushed whisper: "Mama!"

"Good morning, darling," Mary croaked when she managed to open her eyes. She, too, felt as if she'd been run over. But she was a mother so she smiled and touched Gracie's cheek. "Would you like a cuddle with Mama and Papa?"

"Mama," Gracie whispered back and though she was snuggled between Mama and Papa, it was Mary she turned to, it was Mary she curled into because it was Mary who had _been there _this week when Papa was not himself. "Lalou," Gracie murmured. Matthew watched through a slit in his eyes as Mary pressed a kiss to their daughter's hair. Mary kept her lips there, breathing in the child's scent for a beat longer than she normally would, as if it could fortify her for the day to come.

Matthew could not remember a time since he'd married Mary when Gracie had gone to Mary's side of the bed first. It was just one of those things, one of those secrets, a wink, and a _don't tell Mama_–though Mama knew the whole time. With his eyes still closed, Matthew considered the last week. His coldness had not been reserved for Mary only, but everyone–his coworkers, his household staff, his mother–and now he realized, with a mounting sense of shame, he'd also been indifferent to Gracie. After all the work he'd done, had wanted to do to show Mary, but especially to show Gracie _I love you. You are mine. No matter what. _It had not been work, but a need: he wanted her to think of him as Papa. At night, he prayed–as he hadn't even done during the war–that she would always think of him that way, that somehow she would forget the time in New York without him and only know that she had two parents who loved her completely. When he asked God for anything, that was all he asked for.

He remembered the brief, searching look Gracie had given him in Central Park upon meeting him (so very Mary-like), but then her acceptance had come so easily it was hard to believe. She had fit into his arms as if she'd grown up there. She'd been unfazed when he rocked her to sleep instead of Mary. He'd fallen in love with her when Mary brought up the idea of a nap and Gracie had clung to him, all trembling lips and tear filled eyes, inky lashes blinking away tears. _I trust you to save me, _she had seemed to communicate to him, and he found that he loved her, instantly, completely, unconditionally. She had belonged to him before even Mary had.

After the wedding, their time in New York felt as if they were in the most perfect snow globe. Every morning, Gracie and Papa went to feed the ducks, to run in the grass, to even (gently) wrestle. She would take his cheeks in her hands and kiss him with such deliberateness and sweetness that for the first time in his entire life, his heart ached with joy instead of heavy sorrow. For the first time, _he _had known what it felt like to be loved unconditionally by a little girl, just turned eighteen months, still a baby, really. He remembered one morning where the two of them had lain back in the grass and watched the clouds pass above their heads. She'd fallen asleep on his shoulder, trusting him to take care of her, to bring her back home to Mama, _trusting him. _

Then, they'd returned to Downton and even as the adults had struggled, Gracie had flourished. His prayers at night–_please, God, I never even asked you for anything, not even Mary but I'm asking for Gracie, that she would always consider me her father_–seemed to be working. She ran to him, every single day when he returned from work as if she'd been waiting for him. He would swing her up into the air and press kisses to her face until she laughed, and tell her how much he had missed her. Gracie liked it best when he told the bedtime stories and Mary knew it. But there had never been any jealousy. There had only been joy at the thought that Gracie had _two _parents. Gracie had liked to rub his stubble in the morning and laugh. She liked to lie between them in their bed. He had stopped worrying that she would remember the time before he had learned to change a nappy, before he had conquered his fear of pouring water over her head to wash her hair.

He had read books in New York, behind Mary's back, on those nights when she went to bed much earlier than he did because of the pregnancy. He read books on children and parenting–but he also read books on adoption. Gracie was _his. _Yet he wanted his question answered. Would those eighteen months without him really matter? And how much? He found case studies and most were inconclusive. Most experts emphasized that unconditional love must be enforced at all times with adopted children. He hated that word–_adopted_–but he understood the concept and tried to put it into practice. He would show her, and tell her, he loved her no matter what, unceasingly.

Could all of what he'd done and said have been undone in a week? Perhaps not fully–but he'd only had four months to show her his unconditional love before something inside him had snapped. Because he could no longer exist in a world where Richard Carlisle lived, Matthew had been willing–unknowingly perhaps–to sacrifice the most important things in his life–his wife and children. He'd been in denial until the night before, when Mary had wearily admitted that if he did what he planned, she would go away with the children. He hadn't even been able to disagree with her when she'd talked about having a father with blood on his hands–_I don't think you want that for them either, _she'd he had known she was right.

For the first time, he saw what he had been doing to his wife for the past seven days. He could not live without Mary, without Gracie, without his child yet to be born, so to end Richard's existence meant not only sacrificing his family but himself as well. When he'd kissed Mary the night before–it had felt like so long ago, impossible and aching, after he'd promised in New York that it would never feel like that again–he finally saw the strain, the intensity of her desperation, and the defeat (when had he ever seen _Mary _defeated?) as she'd gently pushed him away. And then this morning, how Gracie only wanted Mama, how she'd not come to him with her morning breath and whispers because she could not trust that Papa would not snap at her or discipline her. She could not trust that he would scoop her up in his arms and wink–_don't tell Mama. _

Matthew had been like a sniper, only able to see the target of his gun and not the things that really mattered. Today, he would hear his baby's heartbeat, and there was a deadness inside of him, self-inflicted.

And for what?

When his mother had told him about Carlisle stopping and speaking to Gracie, he had been unable to suppress any of the rage he'd felt, a rage that he had held in check for years. The law could do nothing and Matthew could do nothing within the law. Obviously, Matthew's _intense _threats in his office had meant little to the man. Obviously, Carlisle had someone watching the house. He had known that Mary and Matthew would be gone. The man kept coming, no matter what. He had to be stopped. And every thought, every twisted fantasy he'd had over the years to end Carlisle's scum existence, had surfaced.

Calmly, Matthew had hired his own investigators, as soon as his mother had told him about Carlisle's visit while they'd been away. He had not wanted to be caught unawares by the man. They reported that he spent an increasing amount of time in London, away from his wife and Haxby. The investigator suspected that the marriage was unhappy. For all intents and purposes, Carlisle had taken the incident in Matthew's office to heart; he'd left them all alone. But he'd spoken to Gracie just days after. He'd spoken to Matthew's child. He'd _involved_ Gracie. And it did not matter that the man was spending more time away, that perhaps he might leave the area for good. It only mattered that Carlisle speaking to Gracie _was _the last straw. The man did not deserve to live. It felt like justice when Matthew imagined killing him.

That feeling of justice kept him cold, kept him apart from Mary and his family. He had thought of it constantly the week before–this act of justice he would finally do, how Carlisle deserved to die, that this was _right. _He did not listen to Mary's pleas or his logic. In more tense moments, Matthew had wanted to scream: _Don't you remember what he did to you?_

_You cannot kill a memory, _ Mary had said.

Was that what he'd wanted to do–to kill a memory?

It flashed before him, as it always did. Mary, lying on the floor in the small library. He'd seen the shoe first, barely on her foot, and then the run in the stockings. He hadn't meant to keep looking–he had only been worried–but he'd seen the ruined, ripped red dress, the claw marks on her arms, the ruined corset, the bruise that had been forming on her neck, in the shape of a man's hand. She had trembled, quick shivers, like a kitten left out in a cool spring rain. Except that Mary had not been a freezing kitten to be warmed up and sent on her way. She kept her eyes closed.

Later, she had allowed him to view the blow to the her head, her hair matted with sluggish blood, and that had been the worst because without asking for it, without wishing for it, he had suddenly been imagining Carlisle ramming her into the books, ramming _into_ her, period, and he'd wanted to kill Carlisle, imagining him thrusting into Mary.

Mary was right. Even if Carlisle were to fall over dead from natural causes, Matthew–and, worse, Mary–would always have that memory.

_You cannot kill a memory._

Matthew opened his eyes, turned on his side toward Mary. Gracie was asleep again but Mary was staring at the ceiling. "Mary," he whispered. She turned her head slowly; her neck moved hesitantly, as if she was afraid of what she would find when she looked him in the eye. "I'll come back before the appointment and we can ride to see Doctor George together."

_Oh. _He could see the thought in her eyes: _Oh, thank God, he only wants to talk logistics. _"That's not necessary. I can meet you."

"Mary," he repeated her name urgently. "Please–" he had to stop and wet his lips. "I know I've been a complete–"

"Ass," she supplied. He was surprised; she rarely cursed and certainly not in front of Gracie, even a sleeping Gracie. There was no humor in her voice. "Stranger. Intolerable baboon of a husband." She was very serious. Her loyalty was to her husband and she did not yet know who this man was, asking to ride to the appointment with her.

He did not laugh. It wasn't funny at all, what he had done to her, to them, to their family. "Yes," he agreed. "I have been–" He closed his eyes. "I don't know how you can forgive me. I feel as though I've damaged something between us."

_I _have _damaged something between us._

"We can't talk about this now," she replied, and her tone still sounded defeated. She gestured with her chin towards their daughter. "But does this mean...your plans...you've given them up?"

Matthew swallowed. He created his own box. Inside, he put the memory of finding Mary in the small library. Inside, he put his rage. Inside, he put the lie that he could not exist in a world where Carlisle did. He could exist in that world because that was the world Mary and Gracie and the baby existed in. All that he needed was in this bed. "I don't want to lose you, or the children. I...I won't hurt him unless...he attacks you or the children, unless there is obvious danger. And...it's not just the threat of you leaving...It was...I lost my head for awhile," he concluded.

She turned to look at him again, examining him. "Do you promise?"

"I do promise," he replied earnestly. "But does that matter? When I've already broken so many promises to you and to Gracie?"

"That's a conversation for later," Mary whispered. She took such a deep breath that it shuddered out and he was sure it would turn into a sob. But it didn't, not with Gracie in her arms. She was stronger than him; there was never a moment when she unaware that she was a mother _first, _no matter what else was going on. "I'll meet you at the appointment."

"We'll go together," he insisted. He sat up, to ready himself for a morning of work, scrubbing his jaw with his hands. From the corner of his eye, he saw it all flicker across her face–_I don't know how to _be _with you, to be _together. _I don't know how to sit beside you in the back of a motor. I don't know how to touch you or love you or kiss you. I don't know how to trust you or depend on you. I don't know how I am going to forgive you for becoming what you promised you wouldn't–someone I couldn't depend on. I want to but I don't know how._

In the end, she said none of those things out loud. He was humbled that still, after the past week, she would not want to wound him if she did not have to. But she was back to keeping him a distance away; she knew no other way. She did not know how to be close with him, to share her every thought. She didn't even know how to argue with him. In the end, she said only: "All right."

Gracie began to stir. "Mama?" she asked. "Baby and doctor?"

"Yes," Mary replied with a smile. "Mama and Papa and the baby are going to the doctor to listen to the baby's heart." She quirked her head at her daughter. "Where is Mama's heart?" she wondered aloud, and Gracie placed her little hand on Mary's breast. "And where is Mama's _real _heart?" she continued. Gracie smiled sleepily, removed her hand, and placed it on her own chest. Her other hand went to Mary's belly. "You are the smartest little girl I've ever met!" Mary crowed, kissing her daughter's lips. Matthew wondered where he'd been when Mary had taught Gracie all of this; it was obviously a well-versed act between them. They looked so alike, the two of them cuddled together.

This morning, as he shaved, he'd wished she'd put up a fight, tilted her chin, arched an eyebrow over the doctor's appointment. He could not bear to think that in wanting to kill Carlisle, he had killed some part of his wife instead.

* * *

><p>On the drive to Doctor George's office, Matthew could tell she was nervous about the appointment. But he did not know what she was thinking as she gazed out the window.<p>

In fact, Mary was remembering a conversation she'd had with Sybil and Edith years earlier, directly after Sybil had returned from her nursing training. They had been sitting in Mary's room, waiting for Mary to finish primping. "It's just so incredible, really," Sybil had practically sung as she danced around the room, her dress swishing. "Did you know"–Sybil had been starting many of her sentences this way, _did you know_, after she returned from York–"that the heart has four chambers in it, and each one does something different? It's just such a...useful thing, really very functional. And at the same time, we say things like _my heart is breaking _or _I have a broken heart. _We make it romantic but it's actually an _organ_. It does break but not because someone doesn't love you back. Why don't we ever say _my spleen is broken_?"

"It's interesting," Edith had replied flippantly. "You make it sound almost like an engine."

"Yes! Exactly!" Sybil had beamed at Edith.

"It sounds completely dull to me," Mary had responded as if she were completely bored with the conversation, dabbing perfume onto her neck. She had not wanted to talk about hearts then, romantically or medically. She'd been mean and bored on purpose. Hadn't that been so typical of her then? It had been all she knew. She had remembered telling Anna, "_Haven't you heard? I don't have a heart." _What a surprise it had been then, to discover she did have a heart, and that then, at the moment, dabbing on perfume, it belonged to Matthew and always would.

"Mary?" Matthew asked, interrupting her thoughts and returning her to the present.

She reminded herself they were on the way to the doctor's, to hear their baby's heartbeat. One side of her lip curled up as she thought of Sybil–_four chambers, each with a purpose. _Mary still found it difficult to care. She only wanted her baby's heart to beat and work and function as it should. "I'm just nervous."

"Don't be nervous," he replied. He was not so dense _now _to ignore the dark circles beneath her eyes, the weariness of her shoulders, the luster she always had lessened. He started to reach out but her hand skittered away, hiding in her own lap. "Everything will be fine."

"It's just–" she began in a whisper. "After I had Gracie, I knew that I wanted more children. I just didn't think I would have any. And then you..." her words drifted off, "and I knew I wanted children with _you. _I was happy when I found out I was pregnant but it was just in this past week"–she glanced at the driver; she would say no more on that subject–"that I knew how desperately I wanted _this baby. _He became a person this week. I just...I want him to be healthy and happy."

"She will be," Matthew replied and this time, he reached across the seat and took her hand. She allowed the contact, but she did not hold his hand in return. She looked at him–her eyes so wide–_I'm trying, _they seemed to say. _I am. _

That was all he could ask for, really.

* * *

><p>Doctor George was so normal–cheerful, patient, competent–that it nearly confused Mary. Her whole world had been turned upside down in a week and then flipped right side up again. And yet, here was Doctor George, asking her to step on the scale. It felt like she'd been living in a darkened room and her eyes had suddenly been exposed to sunlight.<p>

"Hmm," he hummed. "You need to gain more weight, Lady Mary."

"All right," she agreed before sitting on the edge of the bed he had in the corner. "I will."

Doctor George waited for her to argue, to explain or excuse herself, but she had no more to say. He looked at the two people in front of them. Lady Mary looked horrible, which was hard for a woman of such astounding beauty to do (this was strictly observational). He could practically see the stress coming off of her in waves. Her shoulders curled inward. She looked slight, her cheeks hollow, as if all the nutrients and weight were only going to her stomach. Meanwhile, Mr. Crawley looked miserable and guilty.

"Did you take that holiday?" Doctor George asked them curiously.

"Yes," they answered in unison. Mary closed her eyes. She did not want to think of that weekend on the beach, what it had felt like to lie skin to skin with Matthew, to whisper her secrets in his ear, unafraid of such intimacies, to touch him, to allow herself to be held, and to have no worries, no worries at all, to know and be known so completely.

Doctor George cleared his throat. There was something else in the air, too–some discord he'd never sensed between the two of them. They did not touch or glance at one another. "Pregnancy can be stressful on a marriage..."

Mary took a breath and set her shoulders back. "Doctor George, could we just...I'm very anxious to hear the baby's heartbeat."

Doctor George knew better. That was not all she was anxious, about but he acquiesced and asked her to lie back. "Also, if neither of you mind, it's best I have skin contact with my stethoscope."

Mary did not glance at Matthew for his approval, but removed her blouse from her waistband and pulled it upwards to just below her breasts.

As Doctor George searched for the heartbeat, Matthew listened to Mary breathe. It seemed there was a song there, in those breaths, in those exhalations and inhalations, the saddest of songs. In and out and out and in. Her chest rising and falling.

He longed to say:

_I miss you._

_Please forgive me._

_I know you're used to doing this all by yourself, and that this week I have reminded you why you always thought it best to go it alone, but I am here. _

_I am ready._

_You can count on me._

Of course, he said none of those things. He couldn't, not with Doctor George in the room and Mary biting her lip, waiting. He didn't even know if she would be able to listen once they _were_ alone.

_Look at me, _Matthew thought. _I'm right here and it's me. Your husband. I'm back. I'm ready. I'm waiting too._

A smile broke suddenly across Doctor George's face. "There it is!" He closed his eyes. This was one of the personal joys of his jobs. "It sounds exactly as it should. Would you like to hear?" he asked Mary.

"I would," she replied, worrying her lip between her teeth. She leaned up on her forearms as Doctor George put the buds in her ears. "Oh!" she cried out nearly instantly upon hearing the quick pattern, the sound taking up her whole world. Their baby's heartbeat sounded like quick, strong smudges in her ears. When the baby came, and he was healthy and whole, she would lay her head close to his chest, and it would sound completely different. Yet, these magnetic smudges, their beat–it was all perfect. "It's beautiful." Suddenly, she realized that this baby did not belong to her alone. It was not like when she was pregnant with Grace, when she trained herself to think of herself as Grace's only parent, as if a fairy had conceived the child. This time, this child was Matthew's from the very beginning, and the baby had been conceived in love, in desire, in intimacy. They'd stood on the beach and she had whispered into Matthew's ear: _Someday I want to tell this baby–Mama and Papa went on a trip while you were in Mama's belly. And we put our feet in the ocean, with you in my belly, and held on to each other, and we loved you so much. We were so glad you were with us. _Mary reached for Matthew's hand as she closed her eyes and began to cry with happiness. For the first time, she did not damn her hormones when the tears fell. "Matthew," she offered and he came nearer, holding her hand, while Doctor George transferred the buds to his ears.

He'd expected it to sound like his own heart, in his own ears, after a quick cycle–but it didn't. It was fast, a one-two beat. It seemed magical to him that this baby inside of Mary had a heart that beat. She smiled at him, even as she cried. "We made that, you and I," she told him, blushing when she remembered that Doctor George was in the room with them. For a moment, it had only been the three of them–Matthew, Mary, and the baby.

Matthew did not want to stop listening. He couldn't. He remembered holding Maggie, so tiny, and realizing that he must protect his family. He'd realized then that he _could _kill in order to protect his family. Now, listening to his child's heartbeat, he realized he'd forgotten the whole point. _We want our Maggie not just to survive but thrive, _Tom had said, and that was what Matthew wanted for this child, this beating heart, so alive in Mary's belly and in his ears, and for Gracie too. It wasn't just about surviving, but _thriving,_ the quick staccato of his child's heart in his ears, his wife's hand in his own. _Loving them was more important than protecting them, especially preemptively. _

For the first time since they left New York, he believed that they–his family–could thrive, no matter where they were, no matter if an enemy lived or died. There was no room for Sir Richard when Matthew's head was full of their baby's heartbeat.

"We made that," he repeated to Mary. Her blush intensified. "We loved each other and we made that."

She nodded, wanting to sob. When she realized he meant to hug her, she let go of his hand and shifted away. It was hard for her, all of this, relearning embraces and trusts.

Feeling the awkward silence, Doctor George automatically filled it. "Well, Lady Mary, Mr. Crawley–you are exactly halfway through your pregnancy. Congratulations!"

Mary tried to smile but she, who knew how to adjust her own expression perfectly and minutely, had no idea what appeared on her face–it could have been a smile or a grimace. "Thank you," she said and meant it. "Thank you for letting us hear that."

On the way home, she had no words to give Matthew, though she could tell by his face that there were things he wanted to say to her. But she did allow herself one weakness, just one, just for a moment. She fell asleep on his shoulder, one of his hands on her belly.

* * *

><p>In the middle of the night, Mary woke to find Matthew's ear against her belly, as if he might hear that magical sound again. She felt safe in the dark, safe enough to run her hands through his hair.<p>

"Do you think you can ever forgive me?" he whispered solemnly, his voice soft, wafting up towards her. She could hear the fear in it.

Mary did not stop playing with his hair. "I _do_ forgive you," she answered after a moment.

He pressed his face, his nose, his mouth to her belly and let out a breath. She could feel the heat of it through her nightgown. "Really?"

"No," she replied with regret, her hand straying to the hair on the back of his neck. She felt like a hypocrite, having gone and on and on about grace and forgiveness. She knew those things did not come naturally–that one must _choose _grace, _choose _forgiveness. But she was still aching, physically aching from the past seven days. The only thing she could give him was honesty. "But I am trying. I am trying for Gracie and for this baby. I am trying for you and for me. _I am trying._"

She felt him nod and then he asked, "Do you think it will ever be the same between us? Ever again?"

"Oh, Matthew," she sighed. It was a relief to let out her usual refrain when he asked her a difficult question because he _was _Matthew and she could sigh, _Oh, Matthew, _and push her hands through his hair, loving him but not knowing how to say it.

"How can it be the same? Now that you know what I'm capable of?"

"Oh, Matthew," she repeated. "I never thought he was capable of it, not the Matthew I know. It just scared me, how easily he went away. It was like you didn't see us and were hellbent on destroying Richard and yourself in the process." She paused but her fingers kept moving. "I know what it's like to hate that man, to want to kill him. Believe me. You're not a monster for that. But it will eat you alive, until you're the walking dead."

"Then," he began and moved upwards so they both lay on their side, looking at one another without touching, "you had Gracie. And you couldn't let it eat you up. You had to let it go."

She nodded. She thought he might try to kiss her and she did know what she would do. Would it be the same? Would she wind her arms around his neck and welcome him? Or would there be an oppressive humidity instead of heat between them? Would she have to push him away?

"I'm letting it go," he promised her, his voice somber. "I'm letting it go...Do you think...Do you think you could ever love me again?" He bared his heart to her–four chambers, each with a purpose–and it hurt her to know that he could for one minute believe that she'd ever stopped.

"Oh, Matthew!" she cried for the third time. "Weren't you paying attention? This week I loved you even more than I could stand. I hated you and I still loved you."

"And now?" he asked.

"I...I..." she stuttered. "The words are stuck in my throat. It's hard for me. You know. To say hard things. But that doesn't mean I don't _feel _them."

"I don't want loving me to be a hard thing. I know it was, this past week, but..." He fell short. He always fell short. He would disappoint her constantly and he knew it. She knew it now too. She would have to decide if she could take it.

If she had known what he was thinking, she would have soothed him: _I make mistakes all the time, _she could say. Or _I will disappoint you too. _Instead, she was still, so still, until she wasn't, until she was trembling. "Do you remember that night when I woke you up to put our feet in the water? And it was just you and me and the baby, and how happy we were?"

He nodded. It felt as if someone was slowly squeezing his heart. Everything in his chest felt tight.

She continued: "I want it to be like that again. It's messy, and I'm scared for it to be like that again. But I do, to answer your question, if I still...I do."

Matthew closed his eyes and nodded. For the first time, she realized that she wasn't the only one damaged from all this, and though she could not give him the words, she could give him something else. She leaned her head forward, careful to keep space between their bodies. As he had done the night before, her hands glided over his cheeks and into his hair. When she kissed him, she poured everything she was afraid to say into that kiss. _Yes, I still love you. Yes, I still want you. _It was a kiss that could bring a person back to life. She touched his lips to his–she opened herself to him; she drew a moan from him when she pulled his bottom lip into her own mouth and ran her tongue and teeth over it. One hand stayed in his hair, the other pressed to his heart. He remembered Mary's conversation with Gracie and understood what her hand was saying, whether she knew it or not: _You are my heart, too._ _Yes, I still love you. Yes, I still want you. _He could feel the blood of his own pulse in his ears as he struggled not to touch her, but for the wrists, as she had the night before. _Yes, I still love you. Yes, I still want you. _She pulled away, her nose brushing his, her breathing heavier than when it had begun. This kiss, unlike the kiss the night before, did not hurt. It soothed. It was not an ending but a beginning. "Goodnight," she murmured, and turned over and went to sleep.

The aching in his heart eased. He could hear the echoes of her kiss in the room.

_Yes, I still love you._

_Yes, I still want you._

* * *

><p><em>AN: Do you still hate me? So, I would love to hear from everyone who has had a strong opinion on these last chapters (aka a lot of you). And I would love to hear from new people too. Don't be afraid; click that review button. And check out my tumblr for some explanations as well!_


	46. Chapter 46

_A/N: Hi! Do you guys even remember who I am? I know this is the longest I have gone between chapters but I wanted to get this right and this chapter gave me a bit of trouble (I always hesitate to say that because it's like asking people: does this make me look fat? only about my writing). Much thanks to **Faeyero, **because not only did she beta this, but when I was so frustrated and melodramatic (who me?), she talked me down from the (metaphoric) wall._

_Also, if you haven't already check me out on tumblr: Ladonnaingenua because I do post about the story and you can ask me questions and cool things like that. I even posted photo of Baby, for those who care (Kavan, ahem, Kavan)._

_Finally, thanks to all of you guys–on here and tumblr. I probably would have given up on this chapter if not for you and for Faeyero._

* * *

><p>Chapter Forty Six<p>

It was the kissing that kept Matthew believing that the damage he'd done was not irrevocable.

For three nights–after the first, when she had awakened to his ear pressed to her belly in the dark–they talked about mundane household matters. It was not intimate, but at least it was something a husband and a wife–_this_ husband and _this_ wife–could talk about: what to do with their little escape artist when she was still too tiny for a bed, how Gracie's and Robert's daily lessons with Baby fared, how Molesley had been sent to Gretchen's bakery for some of Mary's favorite things (to fatten 'er up, as Mrs. Byrd was prone to say about Mary) and returned with stars in his eyes and a blush to his cheeks.

That last bit elicited a bit more conversation than was usual–at least usual for the last three nights. When Mary recounted the story, she ended it on a sigh: "He does seem lonely sometimes...Molesely. Don't you think?"

"Mary, what are you suggesting?" Matthew asked, voice tight and a bit baffled. The lights were still on; they were on their proper sides of the bed. He wanted to pull his hair out. Was she torturing him about Gretchen on purpose? He'd accepted her visits to the bakery because he did know Mary had insatiable sweet tooth, but the hint in her voice had him balking. "That would be impossible."

She turned, slipping a bit more under the covers, and leaned her head on her hand. "Why?" She smirked, the ends of her lips curling up with satisfaction.

"What are you suggesting? That–that Molesley and Gretchen _get married_?" he responded with horror. He made himself laugh, a bit nervously. "That would be ridiculous."

"Are you jealous?" she asked, laughing–not with him but definitely at him. "No, I'm not suggesting they get married. But what if they went on a date, what if I brought up the idea to Molesley and just saw what his reaction was and then..." It was the seriousness in her voice that had Matthew worried. But he was as helpless to her as he had always been because she was here, beside him, laughing, because sometimes in the dark–these last three nights–before they kissed she would let him rub her belly, their baby. Shame had been eating away at him for days.

"Mary," he repeated solemnly. "This isn't New York. I don't think the concept of _dating_ has reached Downton yet. And you must _see_...how–awkward–that would be...for all parties." He was embarrassed but it was so good to see her laughing.

She giggled, smothering the sound in the crook of her elbow."I see how it would be awkward for _you,_" she replied. "Gretchen and I have made our peace. She makes me scones that I actually _like_. We talk about the weather. You, on the other hand," her eyelashes swept up and her brown eyes gleamed with humor as she waggled a finger at him, "won't go near the place." She turned, a bit awkwardly, and shut off her own light so his lamp remained the only soft glow in the room as she snuggled more deeply into the covers.

"Would you _want_ me near the place?" he asked, his tongue in his cheek.

She, rolled back over towards him, her face half hidden by the sheets, her voice serious. "No, I guess I wouldn't."

He reached over and turned out his lamp with an ease Mary envied, sighing as he turned back towards her. "Maybe if Gretchen and Molesley married we could fire Mrs. Byrd and Gretchen could cook. How would you like that?" he asked sarcastically.

"All right, all right," she chuckled, defeated. "Perhaps you're right."

"Perhaps?" His voice was droll.

"Matthew," she whispered and like the last three night since that first night, they both leaned forward, her hands sliding into the thickness of his hair. She kissed him with lips that could not yet say the words, lips that could not say what had suddenly become hard things to feel and even harder to voice: _I love you _and _Of course, I don't want you near that other woman _and _You are mine _and _I am yours. _Her hands slid from his hair to the back of his neck–to skin–and he never touched more than her wrists, feeling the pulse there quicken and thicken with the desire and with the love trapped inside of her mouth. She kissed him as if he were a dying man to be brought back to life, and in a way he felt that way. He knew he was the only man she'd ever kissed _this _way. He knew that. She kissed him as if it were the only way she could express her feelings at this moment. When the desire hummed and sizzled so hotly that she was nearly desperate for him–and his hands were like shackles holding her wrists, wanting so badly to touch more, to pull her towards him, to bury his face in her hair until the room stopped revolving–she pulled away and with a heavy breath murmured, "Good night," before turning over.

It was the kissing that kept Matthew believing these past three nights.

If Mary had words instead of kisses, she would explain to him that it wasn't the getting naked part, or the skin to skin, or the physical intimacy that kept her from doing more than kissing him. It was _the after_. Once the desire was sated, she used to lay her head on his chest and listen to his heart; in the dark they could tell each other anything, secrets that no one else knew. It was _the after_, after the ardor cooled and he would stroke his hand down her back, or push her hair back from her face, with that tender, exhausted smile on his face. He would say something meaningful, something that made her love him more. And she would say...?

_That's _what scared her. _That's _what she was unprepared for. She did not know if she could do _that _part and she knew it would hurt him if, after it was over, she shifted away from him, put her nightgown back on, and went silently to sleep. It had never been that way between them; she didn't want it to be.

She still could not bear the thought of hurting him.

Although she still had not managed to tell him this and during the day, while he was away at work, she nibbled on her nails, wondering _how _to tell him, with words instead of kisses.

It wasn't as if she did not want him. Her kisses said that she did. For God's sake, her body said she did. And yet, they were not just two people, like he and Gretchen had been. She couldn't just rise from a narrow bed, dress, and leave. _That _would hurt him. Mary did not know if she was ready for what came after, the cuddles, the whispers against skin. Or even what he would say during. She could easily recall the sounds he made (though she wished it weren't so easy, not when she was trying to fall asleep) and the way her name–_Mary_–would rumble out from deep in his chest, as if it were pulled from his very heart, and the whispered–_I love you, I love you, I love you–_against her neck as he pressed kiss after kiss there when he was lost in her. She just didn't know how she would react.

So she kept him safe. She kissed him with lips that were afraid to say anything more, her throat tight, her words trapped.

* * *

><p>Tonight, Matthew put Grace to bed as he had been doing for the past three nights, (though the first night had been rough as the little girl wailed for Mama). "You didn't come when she cried for you," he had said softly, once he had returned to their bed that night, once Gracie had finally let him rock her and tell her a story, tell her he loved her so much.<p>

"Why would I?" she had replied. "She didn't need me. She had you."

It had humbled Matthew and had made him feel unworthy, that Mary would give Gracie to him not just once but twice, that she would trust Gracie with him not just once but twice.

Then they had turned the lights off and she had kissed him.

It was the kissing that kept Matthew believing.

Tonight though, Matthew walked into the bedroom earlier than normal. Mary was only flipping through Doctor George's book. "What is it?" she asked.

He didn't say anything, just sat heavily on his side of his bed. "She didn't want to be rocked," he admitted. "I told her a story and then she just wanted to go in the crib. She kissed me, told me she loved me. But she didn't want to be rocked to sleep." He pressed his hands to his eyes. "God, Mary. What have I done? You don't know how guilty I feel. I ignored her and now–"

"Oh, Matthew," she murmured. Mary crawled to him, so she could lay her hand on his back. His feet were firmly planted on the floor and she was turned towards him, their bodies perpendicular. "She did that to me twice last week. It has nothing to do with you. She's just growing up. And you don't have to feel guilty. You shouldn't."

"Why didn't you tell me about her not wanting to be rocked?" He turned to her and took her shoulders in her hands.

Mary patted his cheek consolingly. "Don't worry; you'll have another baby to rock in a few months."

But he didn't let go of her shoulders. "You didn't tell me," he began slowly, "because I completely shut you out. Oh, Mary, I'm sorry. I just...I'm so ashamed that I could lose sight of..." He remembered in New York how she had cried over the flowers he brought for Gracie–her first flowers, how Mary had cried again the first night she had not been the one to rock her girl to sleep. Matthew leaned forward to press his forehead to hers and though it was an intimacy, she allowed it because she did not want to hurt him anymore. She did not want to hurt either one of them anymore.

"I don't want you to feel guilty. That was part of the deal in New York," she whispered, their noses brushing, their mouths so close. "And as for last week, that's over now."

"Is it?" he asked, just as softly.

So she kissed him, with the lights on, with his feet still on the floor, his head turned towards her own as she faced him, sitting. She leaned forward to run her fingers through his hair but when she did, her belly brushed his side and she pulled back. This was not like when they were lying down, when she could kiss him while angling her ever-growing body away from him. His hands were on her wrists and he held onto her. "Mary," he begged. "Please, don't stop. Not yet."

_It was the kissing that kept Matthew believing, and this kiss had hardly been a kiss at all._

She heard it all in his voice–his love for her, his pain, his sorrow, his desire, his shame. She did not need a stethoscope to hear his heartbeat. _This _man, _this _Matthew, had laid his heart in the palm of her hands days after meeting her in New York. She could not bear to hurt him, so she leaned forward again, her belly brushing against his side, his hands sliding down her shoulders, to her arms, and then down her sides–one palm on either side of that belly. He paused there, while she wound her arms around his neck, even in this awkward position, until his hands continued, down to her hips, to her legs, which were curled under her. He unwound them, pulling her right leg over his lap, so she could be closer. Her left leg came around his back of its own accord.

The lights were on and all she could think was: _I love you, I love you, I want you, I love you. Why is this so hard to say? Why can't I just give myself to you again?_ She knew the answer, though. Because she didn't want to hurt him. Because if she shifted and she straddled his lap, and this kissing went on, there would be touching and moans, and they would be skin to skin. And she could not promise that after it was over she would be able to stay, that she wouldn't put on her nightgown and move away from his touch, falling asleep on the edge of the bed. She could not promise that in the middle of it, she would not begin to cry heavy tears.

So she pulled back before she could hurt him. "Goodnight, Matthew," she whispered. But her lips had more to say and went back for another taste and then another, her toes were curling. This time, she unwound her arms and took her legs back from him, and scurried to her side of the bed. "Goodnight," she murmured, reaching for her lamp. With a sigh, he turned off his lamp as well.

It had been three days since he'd returned to her.

It was the kissing that kept Matthew believing that the damage he'd done was not irrevocable.

* * *

><p>Something woke Matthew in the middle of that same night. It was her lips against his, persistent and hungry; it was her hands, sliding down his abdomen, making her intentions clear; it was her naked body atop his clothed one. As always, he woke quickly–but later he would think that his eyes had not opened all the way before his arms came around her to realize she'd rid herself of her nightgown, and his mouth responded, as hungry as hers. For a moment, he thought he must be dreaming, but her hands came up and stroked the stubble on his cheeks and her touch was real and eager.<p>

Her fingers trailed down and started to unbutton his pajama top and her hands couldn't seem to help themselves. They slipped inside to touch his skin and she sighed into his mouth–her lips slowed to languid for a moment–before the excitement tore a breath from her and it was back to urgent–urgent unbuttoning, urgent kissing, urgent stroking, urgent relearning the language of each other's bodies. His hands were in her hair, making a mess of it, holding her to him. Before Matthew knew it, he was as naked as she was (she'd taken care of that), her lips on his neck, and he felt the live wire fission of desire, excitement, joy with her every touch, transferred to him like static shock as she straddled him and went on kissing his neck, her hands like lightning, never touching the same place twice, quick and electrifying. "Mary," he gasped, because he finally could. "What...I mean..."

She pulled her head back to look at him, her brown eyes bright even in the darkness, her smile luminous. He tried not to be distracted by the fact that they were skin to skin and that her breasts were pressed to him. "I felt him move," she whispered. She wanted to shout it. She wanted to dance. But first, she wanted to make love to her husband. She had to. But it was not impulsive, just right.

"Her," Matthew replied automatically before he realized the implications of Mary's words. "You felt–" His hands went to the sides of her stomach, to the skin there, stroking.

She laughed–not a laugh at his expense, but one of pure delight, ecstatic even. "I did. But you won't be able to for awhile yet. It was just a little thing, inside of me. When it happened with Grace, I thought I had indigestion."

He grinned. He couldn't seem to help it. "What does it feel like?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck and shifted so that, even though it seemed impossible, his desire for her thickened and ripened. "Like champagne bubbles are inside of me."

"Really?" he asked, and he knew his grin had gone silly but he really could not help it. He couldn't seem to stop stroking the sides of her stomach either, and then the sides of her breasts because...well...

"Yes, like that" she grinned right back. "I woke up to get a drink of water and then...I felt this fluttering, like champagne bubbles. And then it was as if the champagne went to my head too and I thought: what am I doing? Matthew and I made this baby and I love Matthew and we love this baby and I had to wake you up and tell you."

"Naked?" he replied, smirking.

She kissed him, biting his lower lip. "Yes, naked. Because I've been so afraid. I've been so stupid. And I am _so_ sorry. I should have just thrown my arms around you when you came back, but I was afraid and I didn't want to hurt you if I couldn't be exactly like I was before. But it was stupid. It's all stupid. Because, Matthew"–tears of happiness made her eye sparkle–"I felt our baby move and our other baby is down the hall safe. And I love you. And why should that be hard? It's not hard at all. I make things so complicated sometimes. And I had to wake you up and tell you."

She didn't even give him time to respond because her lips were on him; they felt like fire. He felt as if that same imaginary champagne had gone to his head as well. His hands cupped her cheeks and then slid into her hair–her wonderful hair–and down her back and lower. And she let him. She let him.

_She let him._

He rolled them over. "Is this all right? For you? For...the baby?"

She loved him all the more for asking, even though she knew the weight of his urgency, hard against her hip. "Yes, it's fine. It's wonderful. I love you."

He lowered his mouth to hers and then stopped. "Do you think–do you think she knows, what we are doing?"

A part of Mary wanted to laugh because his response was so _male_. A part of Mary wanted to stroke his hair because his response was one of love and concern. Instead, she only said, "I don't think _he _knows what we are doing, perhaps only that Mama is very happy."

Matthew lowered his lips and began to tease hers, not kissing her fully. "Very happy?"

"Very," she whispered, opening her mouth to his.

Then he was busy pressing open mouthed kisses down her neck to nibble at her clavicle, while his hands found her breasts. She began to hum in the back of her throat, and then moan as his mouth continued lower and replaced his hands. She began to quiver. He saw her grasp the sheet, her knuckles white. "Matthew," she gasped. "I..."

"What?" he asked against her breast, because he wanted to know if she would say it. She ran her hands through his hair. She wanted his full weight on top of her. She knew he was being careful with her, but she wanted all of him.

"Matthew," she begged hoarsely. She reached for him, against her hip, and slid her fingers up the length of him–and he made _that _sound, the moan/groan/grumble with such a needy pitch to it that matched her own urgency–a sound she loved and longed for. She shifted and settled him between her legs.

"What?" he asked again, his blue eyes (God, his eyes!) boring into her. He hovered, waiting for her, waiting for the words.

She leaned up to his ear where she whispered, "I want you. I want you inside of me. I've missed you." She begged then, "Now. Please," and her request wasn't complete before he was inside of her. They stilled for a moment, recognizing that it was impossible to be complete without the other, like two pieces of a puzzle. But then they were both groaning and Matthew began to move as the tension between pleasure so intense it was nearly painful began to build. His thrusts were slow, achingly slow, because he wanted to be careful but even more because he did not want it to end, and she did not want it to end either, so she tried to stay with him, wrapping her legs around him.

"Mary..." he murmured, as he always did, before. He stroked her hair away from her face.

"Me too," she murmured back, "But not yet. Not yet. I'm not done wanting you." She placed an open mouth kiss below his ear. "I'll never be done wanting you."

He stilled inside of her again. He shifted up towards her face again, their noses brushed and the kisses became tender and though she was quaking and he was twitching inside of her as she clenched around him, they went on kissing and kissing, delicious kisses that went on forever. And when he started to thrust inside of her again, there was a sweetness along with the excitement. Before it ended, it seemed completely natural to tell him, "I love you."

* * *

><p>They were pressed together and sweaty but neither wanted to move–though he had rolled them so she was snuggled atop him. "It does seem a bit unfair that you get to feel the baby before me," he noted.<p>

"Does it?" she replied. "How easy it is for you to forget how often I was sick over the toilet. Shouldn't there be some perk for the mother?"

"I suppose so," he joked, before briefly sucking on her neck, because he could, because she let him. She didn't even swat at him and complain that he would leave an embarrassing mark. She wanted him to. She was his and he was hers and there was no getting out of this and that wasn't terrible but, in fact, wonderful. "But...when do you think I will be able to feel too?"

"I couldn't tell you," she murmured sleepily. "Maybe a few weeks, perhaps more. I'm sure it's in the book. With Gracie, it took me even longer to know _I _was feeling her move." She sighed and snuggled into him.

"Mary," he whispered. "You can't fall asleep. You have to put your nightgown back on in case Gracie comes in the morning."

"Don't know where it is. Stay with me," she slurred. "I was so afraid to be naked with you, afterwards." She rubbed her nose, a sure sign she was on the brink of sleep. "Stupid woman," she told herself before finding the curve of his neck with her nose and drifting off to sleep, leaving Matthew to wonder what he was going to do about their nakedness and the lack of bedding (which had all, somehow, found its way to the floor) and his wife's insistence that he _stay–_which was a request he could not and did not want to deny.

He fell asleep, nose in her hair, still inside of her.

* * *

><p>Days later, weeks later, it was no longer the just the kisses that kept Matthew believing that what had been damaged could be healed. It was waking naked beside his wife and her groan of both pleasure and protest as he woke her up, nuzzling her neck, facial hair and all. It was Gracie allowing herself to be rocked while he told her stories of princesses slaying dragons. It was fighting with Mary over the last bite of the delicious scone they shared in the middle of the night, until Mary threw down the trump card–<em>I'm pregnant with your child–<em>and therefore won the last morsel by default.

It was watching Mary smooth her hand over her belly, a secretive smile playing on her lips, that made it obvious she could feel their baby moving. It was Mary waking up early on a Saturday to rouse Gracie for a cuddle with Mama and Papa, even permitting the ever-growing Baby to pounce on the bed as well. It was Mary's voice as she stroked their daughter's hair, early on those Saturday mornings, saying, "Mama and Papa love you so much, darling. More than the moon and all the stars. More than all the words in the world." It was the way _we _fell from Mary's lips again.

It was Gracie demonstrating her growing vocabulary for him and Mary's clapping laughter, the three of them around the table at dinner. It was the way Gracie looked to him first, to see if he was watching her management of Baby's new tricks. It was Gracie's eyes lighting up when he entered the room, the yelp of urgency bursting from her lips, "Papa!" It was her run, the mad dash, as fast as her little legs could carry her until he scooped her off her feet. It was Mary's grin at the sight of them–so unalike in appearance–but growing more similar in expression every day it seemed. As much as Gracie could arch an eyebrow like her mother, she had perfected the patent, patient, Matthew Crawley look of, _Oh, Mary, _and the two of them, dark hair pressed against light, made Mary laugh until her sides ached, even though they had caught her attempting to kick the dog off the bed.

It was Mary wearing his pajama top to bed and nothing else, letting him unbutton it to her breasts and talk directly to the baby, her skin growing hot from his breath. It was Mary wiggling when that breath tickled her, her giggles when he told the baby of the bet–_but don't worry, we will love you no matter whether you are a boy like Mama says or a girl like Papa says...Although I do have a pound resting on this. _It was Mary's hands in his hair, brushing it back from his face, a simple _I love you_ for no reason, with all their clothes on but vulnerability in her eyes.

It was the way she pressed against him when he got ready for work during the week, while he shaved, her breasts against his back, her arms around his waist. He might gently say _I don't have time for this _or _I really must hurry _and she would raise an innocent eyebrow back at him (_Time for what?_) or slither her hands further south and prove him wrong. It was the end of summer, of August, and halfway through September, Mary laying her head against his heart and murmuring, _I love the autumn _and when he asked her why she sighed: _Because our daughter was born in October. _

It was another visit to see Doctor George, and hearing the baby's heartbeat again. It was the way Mary watched him hold Maggie, with soft eyes, the way she had looked at him in New York, once her defenses came down. It was Maggie's yawn and his response: _Oh, it's a hard life for you, I imagine, _and then looking up to see Sybil and Mary watching him, dazzled, as if he'd turned back the sun. It was the bickering over nothing between husband and wife–fighting over the covers, Matthew encouraging Mary to eat more, Baby's presence in their bed–all of these things helped Matthew believe that whatever wound he'd caused could be and had been healed.

One day, near the end of September, Matthew arrived home from work and Gracie dashed to him. "Papa!" she cried as he swung her into his arms and kissed her all over her face until she giggled. "Blocks," she informed him.

Mary rose from the floor filled with toy blocks, nearly six months pregnant, and walked to Matthew to give him a kiss as well. "You're playing blocks?" he murmured against her lips.

"Well, I am building things and _your _daughter, along with _her _accomplice," Mary gestured toward Baby, "are knocking down the blocks."

"Boosh!" Gracie cried, giggling, pretending to push blocks over.

"Aren't you clever," Mary told her daughter and smiled, happy that the two of them (well, three) were in Matthew's arms. Mary reached out and brushed back Gracie's hair from her face. "You need a haircut before your birthday, little one." But then Mary pursed her lips. "Feel her head, won't you, Matthew?" she asked.

"What do you mean _feel her head_?" he replied.

"She's warm," Mary stated, putting the back of her hand to Gracie's forehead. "She has a fever."

"Where is my mother?" Matthew asked as he transferred the child to Mary's arms. "She'll know what to do."

"Of course she will," Mary murmured into their daughter's hair (Gracie was happily repeating _boosh _again and again). It wasn't as if Mary was inexperienced with illness when it came to Gracie–though she was a very healthy girl. There had been the fevers while she had been teething and that brief flu a few months before Matthew arrived. Mary wasn't worried–well, no more than _any_ mother would be with a sick child. _The good news,_ she told herself, _was that Gracie still appeared quite jolly and happy, and very _booshy_. _

But Mary frowned when she saw Isobel's face as she strode into the room. She heard Granny in her head–_what a fine thing it is to have medical knowledge_–and smiled. But Isobel's brow furrowed as she asked, "May I take her?"

Mary didn't like how serious Isobel sounded, but Gracie went willingly into Gran Iz's arms (it was still a battle to stop Gracie's use of her grandmothers' first names). "You were correct, Mary. She does have a fever." Mary smiled and because she loved Isobel and knew that Isobel loved Gracie she did not say, _of course I am right. _But then Isobel continued, "I still think we ought to ring Doctor George, however."

"Doctor George?" Mary asked. "He doesn't treat children."

"No," Isobel agreed, "but he does treat pregnant women and sometimes...it's not best for a pregnant woman to be in close proximity to someone else who is sick."

Mary looked at Matthew whose face seemed pained. "What are you really saying, Isobel?"

"Some illnesses...well, if the mother catches it, so can the baby," Isobel explained. "But don't worry. It's really very precautionary."

"She's sick," Mary explained patiently. "Where do you expect me to go when my child is sick?"

"Let's not worry until we telephone Doctor George," Matthew interrupted.

In fact, Doctor George was delivering a baby when Matthew rang him, yet he did the family one better by arriving in person a few hours later instead of only a phone call. By then, Gracie was no longer in a very _booshy _mood. She was cranky and had begun to cough, just the slightest bit.

Doctor George let her play with his stethoscope while he examined her, before he actually needed to use it. "Take a breath," Mary encouraged her, "Like this." She demonstrated. "Be a good girl for Doctor George."

"Baby?" Gracie inquired quite pitifully.

"Yes, I am a baby doctor," Doctor George replied.

"No," Mary corrected, rolling her eyes, "Baby is the dog." She turned towards Gracie. "Just this once, I'll allow Baby to sit on the divan with you. All right?" The little girl nodded so seriously and Baby was so eager to be next to her mistress that Mary could not begrudge the picture in front of her–the obviously sick girl, comforted by her dog, snuggled at her side.

"You're all done," Doctor George told Gracie. And it was a testament to how poorly Gracie was feeling that she continued to sit, slouching, patting Baby's ears instead of running off to _boosh._

"My poor darling," Mary murmured, but came up short when she noticed Doctor George's expression. "Are _you_ going to tell me to stay away from my child?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm going to kindly _suggest_ that you go stay at your parents' for a few days." Before she could interrupt, he continued. "It's precautionary, but if you were to catch what Gracie has...sometimes it can be passed to the baby. Besides that, your body, since you are with child, is under stress as it is. It's just overall better for you not to be around sickness. Especially when the Abbey is so close and you have two very capable people here to care for Gracie in your absence."

* * *

><p>Mary did not start to cry until she was up in her room, packing a bag. She did not like this. She did not like this one bit. And while Gracie was a strong girl and rarely ill, she was not yet two years old (well, nearly), and though it might be something just passing through, what if it was something serious? What if something happened to Gracie and Mary wasn't there?<p>

So, by the time Matthew found her, her bag was only half packed and she was pacing, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I don't think I can go," she implored. "I really don't."

"Mary," he said softly, clutching her hand to still her. "We will take care of her."

"But I'm her mother!" Mary retorted. "I know things. You have to get the fever down and the best way is with a cool washcloth, only she won't let you put it on her forehead. She hates it. She'll cry and throw a fit. But if you get her to snuggle with you, and lay it against the back of her neck, she won't mind. If I'm not here, how will you know to put the washcloth on her neck instead of her forehead?"

"I'll know because you just told me," and before she could stamp her feet and declare how serious this was, he continued, "And there's always the telephone, if I have any questions. It's only for a few days," Matthew added gently.

"What if something happens to her?" Mary asked, her voice rising. "I'm her _Mama_."

"What if something happens to this one?" he answered, laying his hand against her belly.

"So, I have to choose?" she cried, throwing up her hands quite dramatically.

"Not at all," Matthew soothed, rubbing her shoulders. "You take care of the one in your belly. And I will take care of the one down the hall. With Mother too, of course."

"It's hard," she explained quietly, rubbing her eyes with her fists, much as Grace would do.

"It is," he admitted. "But we're partners, you and I." He pressed his cheek to hers. "I'll telephone as many times a day as you want. Everything will be fine, I promise. Now, finish packing your bag and I'll walk you up to the Abbey."

She leaned a bit away from him, looking him in the eye. She seemed to be searching for something, and whatever it was, she must have found it, because she very softly murmured, "All right."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Guys, I need a big community push on this one. This chapter took soooo much out of me and I don't even know why. I so hope the next one is easier. Please let me know what you thought? Click that review button, pretty please._


	47. Chapter 47

_A/N: Hello! There are a few more people I have to reply to for the last chapter but I figured you wanted the chapter more. Many thanks as always to_ **Faeyero**_, who continues not only to be an incredible beta but convinces me that I can make it to the end of this...which is...so soon!_

_Check me out on tumblr: Ladonnaingenua You can ask me anything and I often give inside scoop about this story and the writing of it!_

_I think that's it. Thank you guys so much. Really. I cannot say that enough._

* * *

><p>Chapter Forty Seven<p>

For Mary, the Abbey was full of ghosts.

If she had been feeling droll–instead of anxious and nervous–she could have laughed at herself, at the girl who had once agreed to marry Patrick Crawley so she would have been able to stay in this house and never leave it. If someone had told that girl a day would come when the house would hold her worst ghosts, she would have laughed (if feeling generous) or raised an eyebrow while adding a pompous comment (if feeling typically snotty and superior). Because for _that _girl, _that _Mary, the Abbey was everything safe and whole and most importantly–it was rightfully hers, even if the law or Papa did not recognize it as such. When _that _Mary walked through its halls or down its stairs or on the grounds, she walked through her place, her home, her birthright.

_That _Mary was entitled and felt protected by the illusion of those entitlements. She had been ignorant. _That _Mary did not know entitlements mean nothing when a man and a woman are alone in a room together and he wants to hurt you, wants to see you bleed. _That _Mary rode Diamond on the grounds she thought should belong to her. In her younger years, she sat through countless boring lessons by countless boring governesses. She loved her room with its red walls and drama. _That _Mary felt completely in control while living at the Abbey, even after Patrick died and she hated Matthew, even when Matthew proposed to Lavinia, even when she agreed to move to Haxby, even during the war when everything felt so paper \-thin and anything could be lost–Downton Abbey was her home, her place; she was in control.

_Until._

Until someone had wanted to see her bleed, until someone hadn't cared which room of her beloved house he besmirched. Until someone had stripped her of any illusions she might have had when it came to _entitlements. _

When Mary arrived at the Abbey the night of Doctor George's visit, after countless comforting words from Matthew and reassurances about Gracie's health, she asked Mrs. Hughes if she might stay in Sybil's room, instead of her own. She didn't want to put the staff out and Sybil's room had recently been cleaned from top to bottom. It would be much easier on everyone, Mary explained.

"We wouldn't mind," Mrs. Hughes replied docilely, "if you preferred your own room. Really, it's no trouble, milady."

Mary shook her head and smiled. "No, please. Sybil's room is perfectly fine." She knew that Mrs. Hughes wouldn't question her choice of rooms, except to think that perhaps high and mighty Lady had Mary learned some humility in New York. But Carson caught Mary's eye–Carson, who knew why Mary might want to avoid that room, and his fondness for her–so obvious in his eyes–melted everything inside of her. "Oh, Carson," Mary sighed, "Did you hear about Gracie?"

"I did, milady," he intoned. "I am very sorry to hear that Miss Grace is ill and that you are distressed not to be with her."

"Carson?" she asked, biting her lip, "When you were little...and you were sick...did you want your mother? Was she comforting to you?"

"That was some time ago," Carson replied with a twinkle in his eye. "I can scarcely remember what comforted me when I was Miss Grace's age."

"I see," Mary nodded. "Carson, are you trying to comfort _me _by telling me that Gracie won't remember either?"

Carson bowed slightly. "Milady, I would never dream of _telling _you anything. But if it comforts you then I can only be glad."

Mary squeezed his wrists for a moment before beginning the long ascent up the stairs. She did not glance back at the small library and when Mrs. Hughes led her to Sybil's room–past her old room– Mary eyes did not leave the back of Mrs. Hughes' head. Yet, Mary felt those spaces all the same–their claim on her. It was a dull ache in her heart, an emptiness, like a room itself.

As she dressed for bed, she told herself she was tired and emotional, that things would seem much simpler in the morning. As she slipped into bed, she told herself that rooms were only rooms–only papered walls and furniture–not witnesses to any crimes perpetrated there. Rooms could not absorb a memory. They could not speak. They kept secrets very well. She told herself–as she fluffed her pillow and closed her eyes–that her daughter would be all right and healthy and that she would see her very soon.

She told herself all the necessary things she needed to hear in order to sleep. In New York, she'd grown used to telling _herself _things in the middle of the night, for who else would? The practice came back to her naturally.

Finally, Mary told herself that her stay at the Abbey would be brief and any ghosts would not even have time to bother her.

Then, she remembered that she had married the future earl and that she was the future countess and one day this would be her home. She thought of _that _Mary who had agreed to marry Patrick Crawley, who would have given anything for Mary's current reality, when all it made Mary herself want to do was run away somewhere and hide.

Then, she cried.

She did not sleep. She had been wrong. She was out of practice in the art of telling herself things.

* * *

><p>In the morning, she went downstairs as she would have done years ago. Her papa was sitting just where he used to sit. Nothing seemed changed. When she sat beside him, he smiled so brightly it nearly blinded her, before he cleared his throat. "I'm so sorry to hear about Gracie. I'm going to look in on her after breakfast," he paused while Mary stirred her tea, "but it is nice to share breakfast with my daughter again."<p>

The way _my daughter _fell from his lips–so tender and vulnerable–made Mary want to cuddle on his lap as she used to when she was very little and let him stroke her hair. But since she was not very little, in age or in girth (at the moment), she asked: "You're going to Crawley House?"

Papa chuckled. "Well, Gracie and Baby and I have a standing date, you know. I mustn't break it."

"But she's ill," Mary replied with confusion.

"I'm aware," Papa said, with little patience. "I want to check on her, be of use, if I can be."

Mary didn't mean to blurt it out. Truly, she didn't. It just happened. "Be of use _how_?"

He furrowed his brow at her in displeasure, but he wasn't really _angry_. She could see that for herself. "When you were little, and you fell ill, you always wanted me to rock you. Not mama, not the the nanny–but me."

"I wanted my papa," Mary said softly.

"I remember once, you had this awful cough. You couldn't sleep; lying down only made it worse. I must have rocked you for hours," he recalled. "Now, Edith, she preferred the nanny, if I am remembering correctly. And Sybil, well." He patted his mouth with his napkin. "She never wanted to be touched by anyone when she was ill. She could be hacking away and running away from the nanny at the same time, refusing to take her medicine." He pushed back from the table and stood, and without thinking, Mary took his hand.

"Thank you," she told him so seriously that she knew it unnerved him, "for going to see Gracie." _And for rocking me when I didn't feel well. And for remembering all those things about all your girls. _"Can you ask Matthew to ring and tell me how they got on during the night?"

"Of course," Papa replied. She still held his hand. "Don't worry, Mary. She'll be fine." And then he did the strangest thing: he dropped a kiss to her hair, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and left the room, going to see if his granddaughter wanted to be rocked.

Mary felt tears spring to her eyes but she bit them back, stroking her belly. It seemed as if everything made her want to cry these days and as a woman who cried but rarely (when she wasn't with child) it always shocked her to feel the lump in her throat that could not be swallowed and the tears rimming her eyes.

_He loved her, _she told herself.

_He loved her._

She knew the _he _in her sentence referred to Papa but it seemed possible, even quite plausible, that the _her _referred to both Mary and her daughter.

_Wasn't that incredible...lovely...miraculous?_

His kiss and the possibility of his love emboldened her. She could stay here in this house and stay here bravely. She felt as if she could confront any ghost, any room, any memory.

She began in her bedroom. The red-papered walls were as bold as she remembered. How had she slept here? It would have been like sleeping in a beating, throbbing heart, contracting in on itself. The room was clean because the staff was thorough and because, Mary was sure, both or either of her parents thought (hoped?) it would be possible that she would need use of the room again.

Mary walked to her vanity, touched the dark antique wood. She could practically see a much younger version of herself admiring herself in the mirror, asking her mother: _Does this brooch work? I can't decide. _Even more so, she remembered Anna's fingers in her hair, fixing it to the perfection Mary insisted upon, and yet somehow, in some way (though she never would have admitted it _then) _they had been friends of a sort, bound by all types of secrets. Sometimes they would be at the vanity, Mary sitting, Anna fixing her hair, and one would be the comforting the other over her broken heart. Oh, how Mary wished she could go back to those two young women, to those two _girls_,and tell them: _It will work out! Those men you love? You will go on loving them and they will love you. And circumstances won't matter. Circumstances will change. And broken hearts _do _heal. I promise._

But Mary knew herself, knew the girl who used to sit and stare at herself in the mirror–looking for flaws, adoring or hating herself, depending on the day–and _that _girl would not believe those sentiments. She was too busy examining her strange feelings for Matthew. Then, she was too busy trying to decide how she could possibly tell him about Pamuk (Mary ignored the hitch in her belly at the thought of the man's name, _in this room_). Then, _that _Mary was busy with the threat of real loss, praying for Matthew's safe return over a hidden photograph; it forced _that _Mary to grow up so that when she saw him with Lavinia, it didn't hurt _as much _because _he lived. That _Mary would stare in the mirror and promise herself to hold all her love for Matthew inside of her, vow not to look at him or touch him. It wouldn't help anyone, never mind her own dignity. After Richard...after the small library...

Well, she had not been so keen on mirrors anymore after that.

She turned to sit on her bed. She could hear her own voice, insisting to Mr. Pamuk: _But I've never done anything..._

_One look at you could tell me that. _How long between her anxious confession and his murmured seductions before he was dead?

Mary could stay no longer. Ghosts were a tricky business. One could only dismantle them a piece at a time, like a bomb.

* * *

><p>"How is she?" Mary asked immediately. Dutifully, her father had told Matthew to call and dutifully Matthew had called.<p>

"She's..." Mary imagined him running a hand through his hair as he thought of the best way to phrase how Grace was really doing. In the end, he decided to be honest. "Her fever rose last night. She was fussy. This morning her fever is lower. But her cough..."

Mary clutched the telephone, pressing the piece to her ear. "Is it in her chest? Is she congested?" She leaned her forehead against the closest wall. She was within walking distance of her daughter and could do nothing but hold the telephone to her ear and mouth.

"It's not in her chest, no," Matthew answered carefully. "But she's becoming more congested. I called Doctor George–"

"Doctor George?"

"Darling, I knew you wouldn't want Clarkson, and besides Doctor George _was_ a general physician before he specialized, and he has children..." Matthew urgently tried to explain.

"Matthew," Mary interrupted. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have cut you off like that. Of course it makes sense to call Doctor George. I trust him. Don't you?"

On the other line, Matthew was keenly aware that her even asking his opinion was yet another step in truly partnering as parents. She wanted to make the choice together. She would be comforted by his agreement. "I do," he replied. "He should be here by noon and I'll call you right after with what he says."

"Is she..." Mary could not finish the sentence because she did not know how. _Is she all right?_ Of course not. _Is she happy?_ Of course not. _Is she comfortable?_ Of course not.

"She has been very brave," Matthew said softly into the telephone. "Not grouchy, more cuddly than normal."

"Less prone to _boosh _the blocks?" Mary gave a watery laughed as she sniffled.

"She was happy to see your father, though," Matthew continued. "Baby has been her constant companion. So the trio–Baby, Gracie, and your father–is intact. Baby won't leave her side, though, and Mary, I must confess," he paused, about to admit a great secret. "I let Baby sleep in our bed last night." He rushed on, before she could get a word in, "It was a great comfort to Gracie, to have me on one side and Baby on the other."

Mary genuinely laughed. "So I've been replaced by a dog, then?"

"No," Matthew said quite solemnly. "I don't want to upset you but I know you want to know. Does she ask for you? Yes. And then I explain to her that you'll be home soon and she seems to accept it. She knows you love her, Mary." His affirmation settled the unease in her belly."How are you?"

"Fine," she replied instantly. "I might go down to the bakery just to do _something_ so I'm not watching the clock until after noon and waiting for you to ring."

"Mary..."

"I'm fine," she insisted. "Please. Please. Don't worry about me. Just...take care of our baby, all right?"

"The dog or the human?" he joked.

"The human, especially, but we can keep the dog if she is bringing Gracie some comfort," Mary tried her best to tease.

"And you take care of our baby, too," he added.

"Yes, all right."

Before they hung up, they did not say _I love you _or _I miss you. _Those were certainties. For now, they had to think of their children.

* * *

><p>Mary was embarrassed to be driven to Gretchen's bakery but Carson insisted on it, even going so far as to refer to <em>her condition<em> which had him blushing scarlet red. She gave in for his sake. But as soon as she walked into the bakery, and Gretchen met her with a smile and teased, "Very fancy this morning, Lady Mary," Mary burst into tears.

"I'm sorry," Gretchen cried, coming out from around the counter for the first time in Mary's presence. "I was only joking. I didn't mean to upset you."

"You haven't," Mary insisted. "Gracie–my daughter–is sick and they won't let me be with her because I'm pregnant." It was wrong. It was wrong to announce her (obvious) pregnancy. It was wrong to burst into tears in a shop. It was wrong to take comfort in little pats from her husband's ex-lover, the baker.

_Lady Mary_ was disgusted with Mary. But Mary was mixed up–the rules here and the lack of them in New York–exhausted, and emotional.

"Let me lock the door and I've some chocolate ice cream upstairs that I'm going to run up and get and you can just eat that until you feel better. How does that sound?"

Gretchen understood. They couldn't ever be friends, not truly. That would be impossible. And if Lady Mary were to unburden all of her troubles to Gretchen, the embarrassment of it would keep Mary from ever returning again. So she gave Mary the only thing she could, the only thing Mary could accept. Gretchen ran up to get it, not just to save Mary the stairs, but so that Mary did not have to see the bed where _it_ had all taken place.

Gretchen did not ask any questions. It was another one of those things she understood. She only handed Mary a rather large bowl of ice cream and sat beside her. After a moment, she began to speak. "My sister, Annie–that's her name...Well Annie, has three little ones, all under five. Can you believe it? I remember her talking about it, what it was like to be carrying and also having to take care of the babies looking up at her. She said she felt horrible and guilty during her second time, when she had Sarah. She told her husband, and me, that there would be no more babies until she figured out how to deal with the guilt she was feeling all the time. And do you know? When she told me about the third one, I said: Annie, how did you get rid of all that guilt, then?" Mary looked up at Gretchen, a spoonful of chocolate in her mouth. "And Annie started laughing-sounds like a dog barking, it does, when she laughs. But she laughed and said that she just figured guilt came along with the job. And stupid me, without thinking, I asked her: what job? Beg your pardon, Lady Mary, but I can't repeat what she called me. But she said being a mother was a job and wouldn't I like to have my niece and nephew for a weekend and see what it was like?" Both Gretchen and Mary laughed. "And after that weekend, I said that she right after all. And she said, 'course I was, you bloody bi–" Gretchen stopped. "Excuse me, Lady Mary. My sister has the worst language. I usually don't speak so, even with someone who isn't well...a lady. But Annie's learned her lesson on that score, don't you worry."

"What do you mean?" Mary asked, even as she realized she felt _so _much better, just sitting and listening to some other woman's problem, some other woman's experience.

"Well, her husband, he's very gentle, her Tom," Gretchen cleared her throat. "We married brothers, her and I. Billy and Tom were brothers–but you don't want to hear about that. But Tom, all during the first time she was pregnant, he tried to get her to stop. Annie can be lazy about things sometimes so she tried...maybe a little. But then when little Sarah reached the age of talking, mimicking and the like," Gretchen laughed before she could complete the joke. "Please excuse my language, again. This is the most I've cursed in a conversation in the whole of my life."

Nibbling on ice cream, Mary asked, "What did little Sarah say?"

Gretchen grinned. "Tom and Annie were putting her to bed, tucking her in like. And Sarah asked: _where is my bloody bear? _And so then Annie really started to try to stop the cursing, don't know where my sister got it from in the first place. But the next day, Sarah was playing with her dolls and Annie asked, oh is that your baby? And Sarah said, 'course he's my son, my son of a...well you can imagine."

Mary giggled along with Gretchen. "I bet she speaks like a nun now."

"Oh, yes," Gretchen agreed. "Do you want some more ice cream?"

"Oh, Gretchen," Mary sighed and patted her hand. "I _do _wish we could be friends. I like you very much, I do."

"We can't," Gretchen stated and stood up. "You're too fine a lady to be friends with the likes of me, Lady Mary."

"That wouldn't matter to me-maybe once it would have, but it wouldn't now, it's just..." Mary did not know how to go on. "The connection...between..."

"Of course, it's just exactly as you say. But," Gretchen met her eye, "I want you to know how much...how very much I respect you and look up to you...how you've handled the situation...not many women would behave as you have, lady or otherwise. I deserved worse treatment."

"I don't think so," Mary replied, pretending to look through the glass at the sweets and the breads. "I know what shame feels like, as a woman, not a lady. And I couldn't bear the thought that you might feel ashamed. Besides," Mary added, "everything you make is delicious. Can I have half a dozen of those scones and that pound cake there?"

They were back on steady ground.

"But there's no chocolate in pound cake," Gretchen winked.

"What a pity, too!" Mary laughed. "I think I'll bring it home to my father and make him promise not to tell his cook how good it is."

* * *

><p>Mary left the bakery–ironically feeling a bit lighter despite the ice cream–and decided to wait on the bench outside the storefront for the car to return (she'd telephoned the Abbey from Gretchen's shop). She began to eat a warm scone and felt instantly comforted by the melting chocolate and that hint of walnut, and if it was wrong to be comforted by food, she didn't care. Doctor George was always telling her to gain more weight anyway. And the scone was delicious. She could eat them <em>all;<em> Matthew wouldn't be around, begging her to share. Of course, while the scones were delicious, she still would have rather split them in half with him, but she decided to think of the positives.

She was thinking of the positives (all six scones, all hers) when a shadow appeared over her, a trembling shadow, like a leaf in the wind. "Lady Mary." Mary's head shot up. There was Marianne Carlisle, looking thinner and more frightened than ever; her cheeks appeared like they'd been carved brutally out of stone. "May I sit?" Before Mary could respond, Marianne did sit, a little too close for Mary's liking. "I'm sorry for last time. I botched things badly. I just–" Marianne folded her hands together and as she did so her glove moved the slightest bit down and her sleeve shifted up, caught on the pleat of her dress. The bruises were old, long past purple; they'd reached the yellow-green stage.

Mary wanted to retch because she was suddenly remembering examining the topography of her own body, taking inventory to see how things were healing. When she'd gone to the doctor in London, to confirm that she was pregnant, he had asked about the ones around her neck. Mary shut her eyes. If she could not be friends with Gretchen, whom she liked and who made delicious scones, then she could most definitely not be friends with Marianne, a ghost of the person Mary might have become, disturbing in so many ways. "You're injured," Mary noted, her voice calm.

"Oh." Marianne tried to hide the bruises and left Mary wondering if it was the girl's nervousness or an act–the way her fingers managed to reveal, just for a moment, more of the bruising instead of less. "It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing," Mary replied. "But I've already told you: I cannot speak to you. Your husband would not like it. If you want help–"

"He's in London all the time now," Marianne hurried through her words, making them sound like beetles scuttling out of her mouth. "Really. He'll never know."

"You're foolish to think that he would leave you without keeping track of what you are doing. Completely foolish." Mary remained firm. "I cannot...That is, I am very sorry, but I cannot associate with you no matter where your husband is."

"Why?" Marianne cried.

"Because he is your husband," Mary hissed. "And if you, after having been married to him, can't imagine what he would do to you, to the _both_ of us, if he knew we were even speaking, then you are not only very foolish but very stupid."

"I'm not," Marianne replied and when Mary arched an eyebrow, the girl continued, "I'm not stupid."

"Then you know," Mary continued. "It's not worth the risk."

"Who else can I talk to?" Mary watched as lazy tears fell from Marianne's eyes. "Who else will understand?"

"Let's pray that it is only you and I," Mary retorted harshly. She could not bear to count victims. She just could not bear it. "Do you want to leave? Do you want help?" Mary asked, a bit more kindly, against her better judgement. "It's possible, you know."

"But it's not," Marianne responded tersely. "Not for me. I'm pregnant." She put her hands to her face and began to cry.

Mary stood too quickly and felt dizzy. And suddenly, Gretchen was beside her, taking her arm, and the bag of baked goods. "Oh, Lady Mary, what was I thinking?" Gretchen asked loudly enough for Marianne to hear. "I forgot to give you the sweet bread you came specifically for."

"Oh, yes," Mary replied dumbly. "I love sweet bread." _Mary did not love sweet bread. _

They left Marianne on the bench, crying her eyes out, with shaking shoulders that looked like they could be snapped in half. "Wait for your ride inside, won't you?" Gretchen asked Mary when they were far enough away. "I glanced up. You looked like she was torturing you, whatever she was saying. To be honest, when she comes in, she gives me the shivers." Gretchen made a noise of derision. "As if you aren't stressed enough."

When the car did come, Mary turned very gracefully towards Gretchen–once again behind the counter, "Thank you," Mary said. "You saved me." Then, she walked sedately out to the curb.

* * *

><p>"What did Doctor George say?" Mary asked Matthew when he rang.<p>

"What's wrong?" he replied instantly. Her voice sounded, detached from her own mouth, as if her words were coming out of someone else's body. "Has something happened?"

"No," Mary lied, "why would you think that?"

On the ride from the bakery to the Abbey, it had all circled in Mary's head like vultures–the bruises, a baby. Oh, God. A baby that, at least by blood, was related to Grace. The connection made Mary want to shake and tremble. She wondered if Richard was a part of it all. If the girl was simply odd, breaking beneath the pressure of marriage to a monster-or a part of Richard's sick game.

"I'm very happy," Mary insisted, "I have my scones. What did the doctor say?"

"He was positive," Matthew told her. "Her fever is up a bit again but not as high as before and he seems to think the congestion is really just her cough breaking up. We're trying to get her to, you know, spit the mucus up but she's..."

"Two. Not even," Mary whispered. "So, she'll be all right?" Again, she pressed her forehead to the wall in front of her.

"He said he wouldn't be surprised if her fever went up a bit again tonight, but that it would probably break soon and though the cough _sounds _worse, it's good that it isn't a hacking sound and in one or two more days, he expects her to be her old self again."

"Thank God," Mary replied.

"Mary," Matthew said with a bit of urgency. "What's wrong? Please don't say _nothing_. Please don't lie."

"It's..." she began slowly. It wasn't a lie, not to tell him about Marianne when she had hardly settled things in her own mind. "It's being away from Gracie and you. And being here. Old ghosts," she murmured softly.

"Oh, Mary." His voice sounded strangled in his throat.

"See? It was no good telling you. Now you'll worry and feel guilty because you can't be here with me but I don't _want_ you here with me. I want you taking care of our Gracie, all right? And, really, I didn't sleep well, my emotions are high...Please," she begged. "Don't worry."

She heard a muffled sound as he tried to move slightly around the corner where he could speak to her with a bit more privacy. "You know that's an impossible request."

"Well, I'm requesting it," she forced herself to laugh. "And I _am _impossible. That isn't news, darling."

"Will you make me a promise?" he asked. "Don't go in that room. Please. Just–please promise me."

She wanted to snap at him, like an angry terrier, but since he wasn't the one she was angry at, it seemed pointless. "All right," she agreed. "Will you ring again, before she goes to bed? Maybe I can talk to her?"

"Yes, of course," Matthew sighed helplessly. "I love you, even though you are impossible."

* * *

><p>She did not go into the small library though it seemed to be calling her name–even as she slipped into bed that night–the scene of the crime. Things were still tense with her mother but she preferred Cora's stilted conversation to the whispers of that room.<p>

But now, ready to sleep, she wondered where the Carlisle baby had been made. Had it been in a bed, mutually passionate, mutually wanted? Or had it been standing, the heat between them so intense they didn't have the time to reach the bed? Or had it been against her will–on the bed, on the bathroom sink, against the wardrobe, in the library, the sitting room, on the dining room table–what did a matter, it wasn't her choice, anyway? Had she cried out?

as he thrusts into her

she–as dry as dust–

every movement

like gears, rusted

tears her

dry like sand paper

to shreds

her back trapped

against a wall of beloved books

her dress is red

ripped open

no wait–that's not right

she_ and_ the dress are ripped open

and she will not cry out

no, she will not cry out

his nails in her arms

hands on her throat

his viciousness inside of her

she will not cry out

but then

inside, inside, inside of her

something breaks

her scream is silenced

with a kiss so violent

she wishes

she'd never made a sound

at all

Mary cried without realizing it, her pillow wet and a bit of her nightgown as well. She rubbed her belly, soothing herself and the baby. She reminded herself that she was not Marianne, that _Mary_ had gotten away, that _Mary_ had thrived. There was no one to put bruises on her like the ones marking Marianne, like the ones that used to mark Lady Mary, just above her gloves, after the men came through and he had just a little too much port.

Mary told herself how much she loved Gracie. She would do anything for her child. But once upon a time, Mary had forced herself to lie, to lie when she found out she was pregnant, when she went to New York, when she was in labor. The lie was: _what happened in the small library doesn't matter at all. _But it did. It did matter, that whole time, until they laid that baby on her breast and Mary saw her face. _Grace. _What about an innocent baby could ever possibly remind her of the small library? And so Grace and that experience, what happened to her in that room, remained disconnected, totally, completely.

Mary was enraged that, by admitting her pregnancy, Marianne could tie the small library to Gracie, even just for this one night, even just for one moment. Mary felt as if she were betraying Grace to think of it and remember just how bad it had been, to hate the man who had made her daughter. She'd always told herself that if she had to choose between the small library and no Gracie in her life, that there was no choice.

_Was that still true?_

Yes, it was still true–but just for tonight the truth hurt more than it had in a very long time.

A very, very long time.

Because the truth was, she'd never been given a choice. Wasn't that the point? Wasn't that what Richard had been trying to pound into her, along with himself–_you have no choice, no choice, no choice, no choice, no power, no choice, no power, no power._

_You cannot kill a memory, _she had told Matthew. But she had not told him, _I know because I have tried. I have tried to kill a memory in every way possible and sometimes it is faded and far from me and sometimes it is close and vicious but it is always alive. It has a pulse. It won't die until I do._

* * *

><p>The next day, Mary kept her promise to Matthew. But still, the small library called to her and she stood, the toes of her shoes on the edge of the threshold. She would not enter. But the door was open and she could hear the ghost of her old self, crying out, Richard's panting like an animal rutting. Because hadn't it been that? <em>No. <em>It had not been mindless, or instinctual. He had wanted to hurt her, destroy her. He had wanted to say: _you have no choice, no power. _

She wondered where Marianne's small library was–which room (or even worse, rooms) held her ghosts. Because Mary had decided that Marianne was not working for Richard. Marianne might be odd and slightly disturbed, but Mary knew the smell of real fear and, like expensive perfume, Marianne had brought the scent to both of their conversations, ripe and strong. It made Mary want to rescue Marianne, even knowing she could not be the one to do it.

It made her feel sad and guilty to know that, to know that she had to think of herself first, in this case. And she realized how changed she was from the woman who'd hardened her heart to keep it from aching instead, who had once famously said: _Aren't we all stuck with the choices we make?_

"Mary," her mother trilled so that Mary whirled around. "Would you join me for tea?"

So far they had managed to avoid one another, but now Mary followed her mother into one of the sitting rooms. As Carson poured, Mary looked at her mother, really looked at her, as she hadn't in a very long time. Cora still seemed so fresh, and dewy, no matter how old she was. Her mouth was not set in a hard line like it had been the last time she'd been at Crawley House; instead her lips twitched nervously. Her hands fluttered, like hummingbirds, as she quietly announced, "That will be all, Carson."

Mary took her tea cup into her hand but Cora kept twitching, as if there were something in her eye. "Gracie is doing much better," Mary started kindly. "Matthew rang earlier."

"Yes," Cora smiled slightly. "I'm glad. Your father said the same as Matthew." She seemed on the verge of tears and Mary tried not to sigh and roll her eyes, but then something incredible happened. Cora sat up straighter and swallowed whatever emotion she had been about to spew over the tea. "Mary." Her tone was very adult-like. Mary could not recall ever having heard it before. "Mary, was I a very poor mother?"

Mary set her tea cup down with a clatter and opened her mouth in shock. "Mama–"

"No, I really would like to know. I can handle it. Was I a _very_ poor mother?" she paused, "or perhaps just a poor one?"

"No, Mama," Mary stated. "I have never thought you were a poor mother–very or otherwise."

"But...Well, I wasn't like you are, with Gracie, or like Sybil is with her children."

"Well," Mary capitulated. "Things are just different now. The nineteen twenties and all..." Mary winced, hearing the ellipses in her own voice.

"No," Cora corrected. "I think you and Sybil would always be wonderful mothers, no matter the era. Some women are, you know."

"Thank you, Mama," Mary coughed out, feeling nervous.

"But I...I think that I...well..." she sighed. "It never came easily to me. I didn't pay close enough attention to the three of you individually _or_ separately. In fact, I blame myself for the divide between you and Edith..."

"That's in the past, Mama," Mary insisted. "Really."

"This isn't an excuse but I want to explain, I want to tell you as a woman, why...I was so worried, so consumed with the expectations of everyone, as the American who married the heir. And then I was even more consumed when your grandfather died and the expectations people had of me in my new position and it seemed I could never please your grand–" she stopped. "I felt as if I had so much to prove in that arena that I'm afraid mothering...Well, it just was different. Even if I left you with nanny for much too long or didn't pay enough attention, you would always give me a cuddle–all of you–and say _I love you_ in a little chorus. So, I kept trying to be better, in my new role, and still I wasn't ever up to snuff. It seemed as if you girls needed so little from me to be happy. By the time I knew differently, you were so independent."

"You've put a lot of thought into this, Mama," Mary noted. "Why? I've already said that I've never thought you did poorly by any of us."

"Yes, well, I'm alone in this house without my grandchildren even though they are so close and I don't know how long they will be this close, how long I will have this chance with them, and I've been trying to figure out where I went wrong." There was the smallest bit of petulant jealousy at the mention of the grandchildren, as Cora reverted back to her more childish tone of of voice.

"I don't know what to say." Perhaps Cora wanted Mary to say: _No, you are wrong; you were a fabulous mother and I always respected you. _But Mary hadn't respected her–loved, yes, but not respected–and often times Cora had seemed more like a child than Mary herself. Perhaps Mary's perception had only been Mary's pride and arrogance. Or maybe Cora wanted Mary to say: _ Oh, I have been so remiss not to let Gracie come here all the time._

But Mary could not say those things.

Or these things:

_But Mama, there are ghosts here. For me and for Matthew and maybe even for Gracie._

_And what you said to Matthew, I am still trying to forgive. I no longer trust you not to reveal the truth to Gracie someday._

Finally, Mary said "Mama, I had a very happy childhood."

It was not really an answer and Cora knew it.

* * *

><p>Tonight would be her last night here. Mary had spoken to Matthew and after consulting Doctor George, it had been decided that it was safe for her to return to her home (and wasn't it strange that Crawley House was more of a home than Downton Abbey?). She tried, as she slipped into bed, not to resent the fact that she was being <em>allowed <em>back home to see her daughter. But she knew, as her hand rose to cover her stomach, that it was best for this baby. And Matthew taking care of Grace was best for their daughter. That was that.

She was just about to turn off the bedside light when there was a knock on her door. She barely had time to squeak out, "Who is it?" before it opened and there was Matthew, such a welcome sight, and love welled up inside of her, actually surging physically up through her body.

"_Matthew_," she said breathlessly, happily, as he closed the door behind him, smiling. He walked to her and sat on the edge of her bed.

"Hello, I've missed you," he said simply before taking her face in his hands and pressing what he intended to be a quick kiss of greeting to her lips. But she rose, half sitting, wrapping her arms around his neck, and deepened the kiss, so all the love pulsing through her, all the desperation she'd felt at night here at the Abbey, made her lips urgent. His arms came around her back so he could support her half-reclining position, even as he moaned a bit, even as she touched her tongue to his and kissed him both as if her very life depended on it and as if they had all the time in the world.

A bit awkwardly (because wasn't everything she did a bit awkward with this belly?) she scooted over, giving him room to lie beside her, on his stomach, while she reclined on her back. His hands were on her cheeks; her hands were in his hair, and it was enough just to kiss and kiss and kiss. Because he was here! And she wasn't thinking of ghosts and no rooms were calling for her. The only sounds were their deepening breaths and her name from his lips: "_Mary_."

He rid himself of his clothing, as she watched with hungry eyes, and then his hands (his hands!) reached down to the hem of her nightgown and pulled it up over her head as she raised her arms, and she wasn't embarrassed at all, especially as his head went to her breasts where he kissed and licked and sucked and she moaned, finally thrashing a bit.

When she turned on her side, she found that her belly made them choose between kissing or pressing center to center, and they didn't want to choose. His hand on her hip, and his whisper in her ear: "Turn over." She did, still on her side but now with her back to him, twisting her neck so she could go on kissing him as he slid into her, one hand holding her hip, the other slipping beneath her back to fondle her breast, all while they kissed (except when his lips strayed to her neck, in which case she gave him as much access as possible).

It built quickly and strongly between them. She felt as if she was too close to a fire and would surely be burned, but she didn't care. When she finally felt that tension peak, as she tightened around him, she let out quite a yell, while he muffled his own in her shoulder.

When she could finally speak she told him she had missed him. "I've missed you, too," he nuzzled her throat.

"I didn't like sleeping without you," she explained. "We never have, not since you invaded my bedroom in New York." She let out a laugh (of course they had spent that one night apart when he had slept in his dressing room–but that didn't count; that wasn't Matthew). "How is she?" Mary asked.

"She's doing perfectly well, a bit less energy than is typical for her, but fine," Matthew told her. "Mother, Violet, and your father are spending the night there."

"My father? Where are they all staying? And that means you can stay here, with me?" she tried not to sound hopeful. "Will Gracie be all right with them, do you think?"

He laughed against her skin. "Yes, your father. He insisted. He's staying on the divan since the extra bedroom is empty of a bed, getting ready for the nursery. Molesley offered his own bed, but your father said he would be fine. Mother is in her own room and Violet is on ours, though she sniffed and asked that sheets would be changed." They laughed together this time. "And yes, Gracie will be all right. She is with some of her favorite people and very happy. Besides, we are only a telephone call away. And yes, I'm staying."

She turned and hugged him as desperately as her belly allowed. "I'm glad. Maybe it's wrong but I'm glad. But how is she, _really_? How bad was it? I want to know."

He shook his head in amusement. "She was sick. One night was particularly trying and I fell asleep holding her in the rocking chair. It was hard to see her that way and to feel so helpless knowing there was so very little, if anything, I could do to make her feel better."

"Oh, Matthew," Mary said with emotion. "Thank you. For taking care of our girl. And for spending the night in that rocking chair."

"Well, it wasn't only me. I found your granny making Grace's stuffed animals talk in funny voices, when the coughing was really bad. Your father brought her gum drops and whenever he was there she wanted to sit on his lap while Baby laid her head on his other knee. They were quite chummy." He paused. "Mary," he began hesitantly. "I think it's time to tell your father everything."

"You do?" Mary asked, and the fact that she _really _wanted his opinion and valued it meant the world to him. She was trusting him not only with Gracie but her own secret, and the relationship between her father and herself.

"I do," Matthew stated, stroking her belly. "We agreed that we would tell him when he loved Gracie on her own and, Mary, it was painfully obvious that he _does _love her, _adores _her, really, and has for some time, too."

"He _is _sleeping on the _divan _for her," Mary joked. "Honestly, I agree with you. And I feel he should know. I'm just...I don't know if I will be able to say the words to _him. _He's my father and for the majority of my life the one person in the world I couldn't bear to disappoint."

"You won't be disappointing him," Matthew argued.

"I know, I know," Mary quickly corrected. "It's just...I'm trying to explain...it's different for a daughter to tell her father. I think it will be harder and..." she stopped.

"And what?" Matthew's hand left her belly and went to her cheek, gently turning her face so he could see her eyes, which were squeezed shut.

"I think it will hurt...more than it normally does. I think, of all the times I've told it...saying the words _this _time will hurt the worst," she whispered.

"Mary, I don't want to overstep," Matthew began slowly. "But do you think it would be better if I told him?"

"I should be there," she said resolutely, but her eyes remained squeezed shut, breaking Matthew's heart because it reminded him of the small library, the way she would not open her eyes.

"All right," he murmured. "You can be there. Which would be harder for you–me telling it so you would have to hear it or you telling it so you would have to say it?"

"I can't ask you to do that," she whispered. "It's not fair to you."

"I'm not offering out of fairness," he tenderly informed her. "I'm offering because I love you."

Her eyes remained closed but tears slipped down her cheeks. "Maybe you could tell it...and I could be there, and if I want to say anything I will."

He brushed her tears away."Don't be sad," he begged. "You've been sad these last three days and I could hear it in your voice and I only want to make you happy now."

She opened her eyes and smiled. "Thank you," she said. "Then, let's change the subject."

"All right. Mary–I've been meaning to ask since I got you naked tonight but..." His hand slid down to her belly. "What's this?"

She wiggled away from him, turning (again, awkwardly) so her back was to him. She giggled. "It's nothing."

"It doesn't seem like nothing," he teased. "_Something's_ changed since I saw you last."

"No, it hasn't," she insisted, lying, while his hands reached around her, tickling. "It's _just _a belly button, for God's sake."

"Well, if it's just a belly button, _for God's sake, _why can't I see it?" Resigned, she turned onto her back and let him inspect it. "It's sticking out," he announced, delighted.

"Yes, it is," she retorted, rather _less_ delighted_. _"So what?"

"So." He pressed a kiss to her belly. "I can't wait to take that bath with you."

She laughed. "You know, this bath is all a figment of your own fantasies. I never agreed to it."

"I think you did." He pressed kisses to her face.

"I think-actually I'm quite sure-I didn't," she replied and couldn't help but laugh as he sat her up and slid behind her so her back was to his chest.

"I know you did," he replied. "I remember _specifically_."

"You are such a liar," she said, looking up at him. Spontaneously, she took his hand and pressed it to the underside of her belly. "Can you feel that?" And because she was looking up at him, she saw it in his face–the shock, the utter shock, the joy that began as slowly as his smile, until he was grinning and his eyes were shining.

"Yes," he whispered, as she pressed his hand into her skin, as she watched his face. "Yes, I feel that. That's our baby," he said tenderly, not to Mary, but to himself. Mary moved his hand to another spot and he felt more movement.

"Of course, it's our baby," she joked. "Did you think I was just getting fat?"

"I wondered," he teased, but the emotion of it had him leaning his forehead to his shoulder. "That's our baby. That's her."

"_Him,_" Mary corrected automatically. She knew she would never forget this moment, the look on his face, the emotion there. For a moment, there was a pang of grief, that he had not been there, his chest to her back, feeling Gracie move. But she pushed it aside because their daughter was healthy and because their baby was moving beneath their hands.

They whispered and talked into the night, her back to his chest, until finally he asked how it had been for her to stay here. On the telephone, he'd heard it in her voice–the weariness and that hint of fear that no one but Matthew would recognize.

She turned a bit in his arms so she could kiss his jaw. "Let's just say, I love being a solicitor's wife." She meant it to be a joke but suddenly they were both realizing it wasn't. Because someday this would be their house. Someday she would be an earl's wife instead of a solicitor's and she thought of _that _Mary, _that _ghost Mary she'd been seeing these past three days and how queer she would find this all–that Mary would be happy to spend the rest of her life at Crawley House with a solicitor as a husband.

"It will be different," Matthew comforted. "You won't be alone here. I'll be here, and all the children we'll have. It will be different."

She fell asleep, forgetting to tell him about Marianne completely, only thinking: _there will be no ghosts._

_No ghosts._

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><p><em>AN: A lot of different characters were in this chapter. I would love to hear your take on them, and their interactions with Mary. Gretchen. Marianne. Robert. Cora. Matthew. Carson. And of course, all the ghosts. Click that little review button for me. Pretty please? This story is almost over._


	48. Chapter 48

_A/N: Hello. I can't believe we are here, at chapter 48. We are so close to the end but yet the most intense is yet to come. I have to thank my beta, Faeyero, who continues to push and prod me. I am so thankful for you and for your help! I also am so thankful for all of you who continue to comment and the few new people who have stumbled upon this story. I think if I didn't have you guys begging for chapters I would probably never have finished this. So thanks. _

_Also, check me out on tumblr if you like the inside scoop: ladonnaingenua._

_Ciao._

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><p>Chapter Forty Eight<p>

For Robert, regret tasted like too many cranberries gobbled down the night before Christmas, sicking them up under his mother's disapproving eye, the year he turned ten. "They taste quite different coming up than going in, don't they?" his mother had quipped in her typical way. She, of course, had not offered him pity because she had warned him–"Robert, you are eating too many cranberries and if you do not stop, you will regret it later"–but he'd continued to sneak them because cranberries tasted like Christmas and Christmas tasted wonderful. He had quickly discovered that while Christmas tasted wonderful, retching up Christmas did not taste nor feel wonderful at all.

Too many years later to count, Robert still associated the taste of sick cranberries barreling up his throat with regret, and though his mother probably did not remember the incident, her mantra remained with him whenever he considered regret–_Regrets taste quite different coming up than going in. _For a man Robert's age, there were too many regrets to count–but the major ones had a way of sticking, and whenever he thought them over, he found his mouth tasted of half digested cranberries.

In his adult life, he had regretted marrying Cora _before _loving her. He could remember the time they'd kissed–a year after they'd been married–and of course it wasn't the first kiss, but it was the first time he had reached for her with the tenderness of a man in love. She had stepped back and begun to tremble and then she had begun to cry. He had never seen her cry before. "I never thought you would," she had whispered. When he had asked her what she had meant, she'd only said: "I never thought you would love me." The taste of rotten cranberries had filled his mouth as he'd considered their courtship: hurried, rushed, all the right words said with none of the meaning behind them, his father awkwardly forcing Cora to sign the document entailing the money to the estate, the wedding night–feeling as if he were in bed with a stranger suddenly–and then making uncomfortable love without meeting her eye. In that moment, when she had whispered that she had never thought he would come to love her, he had sat on the edge of the bed like an old man (never imagining that someday he would actually be one), his mouth tasting of regurgitated cranberries as he had apologized. The taste had lingered as he'd said the words for the first time: "I love you very much, Cora."

And he had. He did. Even when he had been kissing the maid in his dressing room, while Cora lay closer to death than anyone could imagine. Jane's kisses had tasted like cranberries, the first bite, and the second bite, and even the third–delicious–just as his mother had foretold. Yet when he saw his wife, the woman he loved, the mother of his children, the taste of rotten cranberries had made him sick to his stomach. He'd heard his mother's words in his head–_that tasted quite different going in than it did when coming up, didn't it, Robert?_

When it came to his daughters, for a long time he had no regrets. He had raised them the way that he had been raised. He had done his best. But then they had deserted him and any feelings he had were hardened to stone and then to dust. Edith stayed, though, and sometimes when he had been feeling particularly nasty he'd thought that perhaps Edith stayed because for the first time she had her whole parents' attention and devotion. _She _had not deserted him, like Mary and Sybil. But then, every once in awhile when he thought of them, the taste of cranberries would fill his mouth; he wondered if he should regret turning his heart to stone when it came to his eldest and youngest daughters, and if there was anything to be done about it. He thought about Mary who, at eleven, had come to him and demanded he fire the governess for monitoring the books she read, telling the young Lady Mary that _"The Odyssey" is quite inappropriate for a girl your age. _Robert had laughed, spoken to the governess and told her that his daughters could read whatever they pleased and if he ever heard talk like that again, she would be sacked. Mary had always came to him. And then suddenly she had been gone.

But of course, that wasn't right. She had stopped coming to him long before she had left for good and his mother, the turncoat, had read Mary's letter to the family.

If Robert was honest, he'd lost Mary long before that. It had been when he'd begun to push Patrick at her, just hints, growing less subtle as time went on. She'd looked at him sometimes, across the dinner table, her eyes filled with betrayal. Once, in a fit of temper, she'd snapped at him, _You told me I could read whatever books I pleased! I see that courtesy does not extend to husbands! _She had caught him in the library and he had snapped the book in his lap shut. His tone had been harsh: _You are welcome to marry the gentleman of your choosing, just not if you want to stay in this house and someday be a countess. _Her eyes had flashed with mutiny but in the end she had turned on her heel and walked away.

When he had stood in front of her and told her of Patrick's death, he had been disappointed in her lack of emotion. He had gone to Cora and asked, _what have we done wrong to raise a daughter so unfeeling? _But now he understood that Mary had kept still and controlled instead of stamping and dragging her feet through the whole engagement and then the mourning process: _I don't love him, I never did, and I never pretended to love him and I will not dishonor him by pretending to mourn someone I never loved. _She had no longer trusted Robert after that, after he expected her to at least pretend to mourn. Not a bit.

There had been jealousy in her eyes as he'd called Matthew _old chap _and hugged him around the shoulders. Her eyes had been screaming at Robert: _see me! _but he had ignored it, pretending not to see her hurt. Why? Because it had been easier? Because if Robert had a son, he would want him to be like Matthew?

She had not told him of the Pamuk incident because he could not be trusted. Not anymore. She had not known if he would still love her, knowing her secret. It had only been then–when Cora had finally told him–that the taste of cranberries mixed with bile had filled his mouth completely. He should have said: _nothing you will ever do will make me stop loving you. _But he was an Englishman and it was hard to say, it was impossible to say sometimes, and the closest he had come was to encourage her to find a cowboy in the middle west.

When she had left, and that damn letter had been read, he had considered her lost for good. The little girl who had wanted to read _The Odyssey _and perched herself on his knee discussing old Greek myths in a pinafore was gone.

When he had discovered Mary had a child, a daughter, and that he was not allowed to ask who the father was, he had felt impotent and stupid. It was as if Mary had written his mother and said plain as day: _I don't trust Papa with this information. _Though he had tasted cranberries and bile, considering his daughter, his little girl, somewhere in the world with an infant–alone–he had hardened his heart not only towards Mary but towards the little baby girl in the photograph, a replica of her mother, and swallowed back the taste any time he thought of them.

_I do not know them._

Now he watched that same baby, nearly two years old, slid down the stairs of Crawley House on her bottom. He watched as Grace descended the stairs (since it had been nearly impossible to actually sleep on the divan) but closed his eyes in mock sleep as she walked towards him. "Geepa," she whispered, tugging at his arm. Gone was the croaky frog voice and the runny nose, even the fever. She tugged until he rose, then took his hand, Baby following at their heels as they walked back upstairs. It was very early, just past dawn. "Rock?" she pleaded, leading him to the rocking chair where he sat and snuggled her into his lap.

Sometimes, his heart ached, holding his granddaughter the way he used to hold his daughter.

"Would you like me to read to you?" his eyes scanned her room as Baby curled near his feet. There were very few books; they were probably still in New York, in her old room, because Mary and Matthew had not been sure how long they would stay. "Grandpapa loves books," he told her.

"Me," she replied from his arms.

"Yes, I love you too." It wasn't so hard to say to a girl so small, in the early morning, when no one else could hear. "Perhaps for your birthday you and I will go shopping for some wonderful books filled with wonderful stories and pictures? How does that sound? Just you and I." He wouldn't just buy her books; someday, if Mary decided to stay, Robert would teach Gracie how to read and that would be his legacy to her, to whomever came after her. She would say: _my grandpapa taught me to read. _

Just as he hoped that Robbie, one day, would say: _my grandpapa played swords with me, _remembering the hollowed out, wooden swords he'd brought over to his the Dower House, in mute apology for the ridiculous gift of a horse. "Play," Robbie had demanded, growling a bit, and Branson–_Tom_–had laughed: "He's very ferocious, Robbie is. Gets it from his mother." Robert had understood this to be forgiveness and for the first time, perhaps ever, he understood the extent of Tom's love for Sybil, because it was Sybil Tom was doing it for, forgiving the man who time and time again had purposely embarrassed and belittled him. Then, Robert and Robbie had played with the swords for over an hour in the grass (Robert always died very dramatically) until Sybil came out, looking all soft with her hair loose, and asked if he would like to see his granddaughter. Maggie had been the tiniest baby Robert had held since Sybil herself and the taste of cranberries filled his mouth because this sleeping baby, and Robbie (whom he hoped he could make it all up to) and Gracie and the baby to come–they were his legacy. The thought that he had once pointed to the big house and told Matthew, _That's my life's work, _made him feel exactly like his ten year old self, sicking up too many cranberries.

"Good," Gracie yawned, not understanding him, still sleepy. "Mama and Papa?" she asked.

"You'll see them today," he promised. "Maybe we will go and surprise them up at the big house."

"Big," she repeated. "Lalou, Geeeepa," and she fell asleep quietly in his arms as he rocked and rocked and rocked.

He kissed her hair. She fit so perfectly in his arms. For the first time in a long time, he did not taste regret or even shame, but hope. At least he thought that was what he was tasting, something so foreign when it came to his family–after years of distance, uneasy silences, uneasy words–that this thing called hope created a lump in his throat he could not swallow. He had to lay his head on Gracie's hair–rocking, rocking, rocking–until that lump passed on its own. But even when it was gone, he still tasted this strange thing.

He had not ruined everything. It could be fixed and it would be. He would be a better grandfather than he had been a father.

Everything would be all right.

* * *

><p>Mary and Matthew had both slipped into their light jackets when they heard the loud giggling laughter and Gracie's thrilling yell: "Mama!" and then she was caught up in Mary's arms. Mary had never experienced that before–her daughter yelling her name, the joy at seeing her anew–because Mary and Gracie had simply never been apart and she tried not to cry as Gracie tightened her arms around her neck and squeezed. Mary pressed kisses to Gracie's face.<p>

"Do you know how much I missed you?" Mary asked her when the little girl finally looked at her. "I missed you _so_ much."

Grace's smile was dazzling. "Me! Too!" She reached out a hand to wave hello to Papa and touch his face but she'd seen so much of him lately she was happy to stay in her mother's arms, her own arms around her mother's neck.

"And did you walk here all alone?" Matthew teased. "How did you find your way?"

Gracie shook her head at her father. "Geepa!" and sure enough Robert walked towards them, a little shy (could it be?) and a little slower than the overzealous Gracie. "Geepa!" Gracie repeated.

"What is all this racket?" Cora murmured as she descended the stairs, having eaten breakfast in bed. But it wasn't a complaint, since the childish joy in her voice indicated that she wanted _more _racket in the house, not less.

"Hullo!" Gracie chirped at her and Cora chirped right back, as if they were two little birds. Mary found it all a bit startling and not necessarily in a bad way. Her father had stayed overnight with Gracie and brought her up to the Abbey and they were standing in the Great Hall–Matthew, Gracie, her parents, and herself–perfectly at peace. Though the small library was at her back, she did not feel it. It did not call to her. The weight of Gracie in her arms anchored her. Even when Gracie was passed back to Grandpapa, Mary felt anchored by each of them in some strange way–past, present, and future.

She suddenly knew that today would be the day they told her father everything. She knew it the same way she would dress Gracie in an extra sweater, sure the temperature would drop (and it would). She knew that today would be the day, the same way that when she turned to see Matthew Crawley in Central Park, she knew her life would be turned on its head.

It grieved her, though she knew he may have assumed something awful happened since their last conversation ended abruptly due to Sybil's labor, to burden him with this information. But how often had Matthew and everyone else she told proven her wrong–that the knowledge of what happened was not a burden or a curse–but part of loving her, the awareness of the worst things that ever happened to her and the comforting of her, so that she healed bit by bit, piece by piece? They helped her to dream that someday she might be whole.

Mary pressed a kiss to her father's cheek knowing she was about to ruin his blissful state of ignorance. "Thank you, Papa, for your help with Gracie." She laughed, "and with Baby."

Robert appeared to be more pleased by her kiss than by her praise. "It was nothing," he told her. It was the truth, it was so pitifully nothing when compared to what he regretted, when it came to what Gracie had been offering him all along: unconditional, no strings attached love, adoration in a little girl's eyes again, a chance to begin anew. Feeling that again made Robert want to go back in time and tell Mary: _you may read whatever you please and you may marry whomever you please and I will love you no differently._ _I promise._

Mary turned to look at Matthew. She raised an eyebrow in the silent communication that comes from being married, from knowing a person for ten years. He nodded, so slightly no one else noticed: _If you want to tell him today, then I will do whatever you ask._

Cora had walked over to her husband and asked Gracie for a kiss, which Gracie gave, though she was not used to the paper-soft cheek of her Grandmama. "Mama?" Mary asked. She remembered her mother explaining herself the day before, how she had chosen to be a better countess than mother–and still failed in a million ways. A part of Mary understood; she had decided to be a better mother than daughter–and failed in a million ways as well. But Mary also knew that life offered second chances when one least expected it and, perhaps, here was one. "Would you mind terribly if Matthew and I spoke with Papa for awhile while you entertained Gracie?"

"Of course not!" Cora cried with joy. Why, as soon as she had learned that her grandchildren would be visiting, she had bought every toy she could find and filled the old nursery with them. "Would you like to come with Grandmama?" she asked Gracie, holding out her arms. Grace went, but she looked from her parents to her grandpapa, noting the tension that Cora hadn't. How Grandpapa went stiff, how Mama began to knead her dress, how Papa reached out a hand to Mama's shoulder. She was curious but then Grandmama was telling her of all the magical things in the nursery–_a real rocking horse!–_and Grace began to babble back at Cora. She forgot the worry, the tension she had noticed before. She forgot because she was a child, not even two years old, and her age protected her from knowing more than she should.

* * *

><p>The summer he was twelve, Robert had discovered a penchant for creating and telling ghost stories. His audience had been his younger, much more squeamish little sister, and the story that was sure to make her squeal had to do with a maid, who had (of course) worked at Downton Abbey many, many, many years ago. She'd been very fine looking, with hair the color of Rosamund's (of course) and happy until she fell in love with the butler who scorned her love. She had killed herself in her favorite room of the house, Rosamund's room (of course), and there was so much blood they'd been forced to change the carpets. Now that same ghost haunted that room, calling for her love, ready to strike any girl she thought pretty enough to tempt the butler. Robert had ended the story with a slight pause, tilting his head as if seeing his sister for the first time, then he would say, "My, Rosamond, you are growing up to be a very pretty girl. Of course, the ghost probably won't bother you for a few years yet."<p>

He had terrorized her that summer, and yet she'd seemed to like it. "Tell me one," she'd begged, before immediately pressing her hands to her ears, "no, don't!" She teetered between the horror of knowing and the horror of not knowing.

He wasn't a stupid man. After their conversation, right before Tom had called about Sybil, he had known that something awful had happened to Mary. Now, walking ahead of them, he tried to imagine the worst case scenario. It had to do with Sir Richard. What had the man done? Robert knew that if he could imagine the worst then he would be able to handle whatever Mary had to say with ease. Because it could not be the _worst_. Not Mary. Perhaps Sir Richard had grabbed her and frightened her. Or spoken out of turn. Even though those hypotheses were illogical considering the younger couple's seriousness and somber attitude upon entering the library, a part of Robert still thought that nothing worse could have happened. Not to Mary.

He felt like his sister upon waiting to hear a chilling tale, wanting to cover his ears, even as he was about to hear the thing he'd been asking for these past years–the whole story.

_Tell me; no, don't. _

Mary and Matthew sat across from him but Mary stood after only a second, as if the her seat burned her, and began to walk through the room, her hands on her arms, as if she were cold. She meandered with no clear destination in mind, and Robert was not sure if she would return to her seat. Matthew's eyes watched her helplessly, wounded for her.

"Mary has asked me..." Matthew cleared his throat. "It might be easier if I tell you. And if there is any place where I don't give the correct details, she has promised to interrupt me."

"Mary," Robert called. "Please come sit down with us. You've had a very stressful few days."

_And you look like a ghost in the stories I used to tell Rosamund. _

Mary looked up at him suddenly "Did you put Gracie's jacket on her this morning? Or was it Granny or Isobel?"

He was flummoxed. But the feeling wasn't unusual when it came to his daughters. Living in a household full of women for the majority of his life often left him flummoxed. "What does it matter? There was a chill in the air and she'd just been sick. She needed a coat."

Mary walked towards them and sat. "But did you put it on her? Did you lean down and put her little arms in and then button it up for her?"

"Yes," he let out a sigh, a bit embarrassed. "Mother and Cousin Isobel were in the spare bedroom planning the nursery and I knew that you would want to see Gracie as soon as possible and that she wanted to see you so I got her ready."

"So you leaned down and you–"

"Mary," Robert warned.

She smiled but the smile scared him because it was the ghost of a smile. This was not the daughter he remembered, nor the fierce mother he'd come to know her as since she returned. "You love her then. You really do. I've thought you did, for some time now. And then, Matthew told me how you slept on the divan. But you really love her, don't you?"

"Mary," he repeated. "I am not adept at expressing my feelings but because this confession seems so important, I will indulge you. Yes, I love Gracie. She is exactly as you described her...once one spends time with her, it is impossible _not _to love her."

Mary smiled, pleased, and Matthew took her hand, even as he took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive underwater for a very long time. "The story begins with Pamuk."

Mary looked at Matthew with confusion and embarrassment. "He already knows about that."

"She's right," Robert stated. He did not need a retelling of that particular story.

_Tell me; no, don't._

"Mary, please trust me?" Matthew asked and then, when she was silent, he took another breath. "You were told the facts by your wife. And when you and Mary spoke of the incident, neither of you wanted to go into the details. Mary was never able to deny assumptions on Cousin Cora's part because she was embarrassed and ashamed. Robert," Matthew forced Robert to meet his eyes, "Pamuk came into Mary's room completely uninvited. She threatened him. She told him she would scream and he told her she would already be ruined, with a man in her bedroom. And when he died...nothing...of consequence took place, but Cousin Cora made certain assumptions and Mary allowed her those assumptions because she was ashamed of it. And when she called Mary _damaged goods,_" Matthew's mouth twisted with those words, "Mary believed her. By the time you were told, there was no recourse for Mary to explain what really happened...especially to her father."

Robert was silent. He folded his hands. "I wish she would have told me that," he said to Matthew, then he turned to Mary. "But I understand why you didn't, or felt you couldn't," he said to Mary. "It makes me incredibly furious at Pamuk, even angry at your mama." He wanted this to be the whole story; he wanted to place a period at the end of this particularly horrible story.

_Tell me; no, don't._

"Don't be furious yet, Papa," Mary begged. "Not yet."

Matthew glanced at his wife who nodded for him to continue. "It was due to that sense of shame and, excuse me for speaking ill of your wife, but the pressure from Cousin Cora that Mary needed to be married, that she was no longer worthy of the same type of husband that she had been worthy of before the Pamuk incident, that Mary encouraged Sir Richard. That is why she told him she would think over his proposal." Matthew paused. "When Vera Bates threatened to go public with the story, Mary went to Carlisle and asked for mercy. He took care of it. But as you know, as the engagement lengthened, Mary was unhappy. Even though she did not want to marry Carlisle–in fact, she had grown to hate him–she felt as if she had to because of the threat of her scandal becoming public."

"But then I told you," Mary whispered to her father, reaching for her husband's hand. "And you were so good and so kind. After I told Matthew and you both...you didn't look at me differently. And I knew that I could live my life even if Carlisle published. Because the people that really loved me...would continue to love me."

"So, you ended things with Carlisle," Robert assumed, turning to his daughter.

Mary looked down at her lap, at her own hand wrapped up in her husband's. She opened her mouth to speak but a single, indiscernible syllable was all that came. A wail would have followed but she closed her mouth and squeezed Matthew's hand, giving him permission to say what she could not. She could not. She could not.

"Mary...Mary sacked him and he–"

"He did something ungentlemanly?" Robert asked, interrupting the inevitable. "Did he say something uncouth?" There was so much hope in his voice that Mary had to squeeze her eyes shut because by now, he knew. Her father knew that the best outcome of Mary sacking Carlisle in a private room was something unseemly. But what had happened was beyond unseemly. It was heinous.

Mary did not open her eyes but she did squeeze Matthew's hand again, willing him to let her speak. "No, Papa," Mary whispered brokenly, "He did not do something ungentlemanly. That makes it sound...like such a small thing." She took a deep shuddering breath, her chest heaving. "He tore open my dress and then he tore me open. He _raped _me, Papa. In the small library. Richard raped me." If a voice could bleed, Mary's was. Each word was ripped from her chest, harshly, and the words themselves were raw, stripped down to nothing. They hurt to say and they hurt to hear.

Robert abruptly stood but Mary did not notice because her eyes were closed and she was trying to breathe; she was trying to talk about _it _without opening the box. It was an impossible task even as Matthew let go of her hand to rub her back and placed his other hand on her knee. Her chest felt heavy, as if someone had placed the heaviest of stones there. "I know it's not a pleasant word," Mary continued. "But it was even less of a pleasant experience. Matthew and Granny found me. After."

_On the ground eyes squeezed shut blood and what he left between my thighs the ghost of his hands on my neck the claw marks on my arms–_

"Where?" Robert asked, his tone devoid of feeling. He pressed his forehead to the glass of the window for some blessed relief. He felt as if all of the blood in his body, beat in his temples, as if all of the heat in the house was centered in his chest, as if he would explode from this.

_Tell me: no, don't._

"Where, what?" Mary replied. The confusion of his question had her opening her eyes while still trying to keep the box closed.

"Where did...where did _this _happen?" He was still standing, his hands were in his pockets and if Mary had worked up the courage to look at his face, she would have seen that it was hard, his eyes stormy.

Mary was silent for a moment. In at least this, they could understand each other. This house was supposed to be safe. This house was supposed to be theirs. "The small library," she said at last, quietly.

Robert sat back down again, forced himself to sit back down, feeling ten years older than when he had entered the room. "And no one told me." There was no time to analyze his feelings, nor was he good at doing such a thing; his heart was a mess of grief and rage and terror and sorrow. God, the sorrow could have brought him to his knees if he let it.

"Papa," Mary began slowly, once again closing her eyes. "I couldn't. I just..._I couldn't._"

"He..." Even now, Robert was unsure if he would ever be able to say the man's name or the horrible thing he'd done. "To my daughter, in my home. And no one told me."

Mary had said: _He ripped me open. _Robert felt as if someone had gouged through his skin with a hand and pulled out his beating heart. _He ripped me open. _

"Papa." Mary's voice shook. She began to weep. She felt as if she were mentally grasping at the lid of the box, pressing it down as hard as she could, and yet pieces were coming out. Pieces were always coming out. "_I couldn't._ I wasn't brave enough."

"No, Mary," Robert said at last, with a sigh. "I don't believe you have ever had a problem with courage. I, however, have often fallen short in being trustworthy, in being someone you could depend on. When you say you couldn't tell me, couldn't come to me, you mean that you couldn't trust that I would love and take care of you."

"No," Mary shook her head. She felt Matthew's hands, on her knee and on her back anchoring her, and the stones on her chest. Was she wheezing? "No. I just could not speak of it _at all_. To anyone. Not even to Granny who found me and certainly not to Matthew who also found me. It hurt me to speak of it. It _hurts _me to speak of it now."

"I don't want you to be hurt," Robert said simply. "You've told me. You don't have to say any more.

_Tell me: no, don't._

Mary shook her head. "I do. I do." She wept, tears dripping from her cheeks. "I do have to say more." She turned her face to Matthew, even with her eyes closed, and asked him silently to continue.

Matthew cleared his throat. It was not easy for him to speak of it either. "After...unbeknownst to anyone...Mary found that she was pregnant–"

"No, no, no!" Robert interrupted loudly, shockingly loud as he stood and walked again to the window. He remembered the day, in the early summer, when his grandchildren had played on the grass.

Mary began to cry, and this time not soundlessly. But Matthew spoke over her and spoke over Robert's silent outrage. "Mary had to leave because of the baby. She was afraid that even if she told the truth, people would look at the baby differently. She knew that if she did not tell the truth, then people would certainly look at the baby differently. So she went to her grandmother in New York."

"And this baby was...is–"

Matthew interrupted Robert this time. "Cora and I went to New York and Cora saw that Mary was pregnant. She eventually shared that information with Cousin Violet."

"The photograph I saw–"

Again, Matthew interrupted Robert. He was trying to save Robert from saying something hurtful out of ignorance. He was trying to save Mary. It was such a delicate subject, such an important one. "When I went to New York in April, I happened upon Mary–"

"And Gracie." At last, Robert said the thing that had been bursting in his chest for minutes now. "You happened upon Mary and Gracie." Somehow, at hearing that, at imagining Matthew meeting Gracie and Mary in New York, at seeing the way Matthew held onto his daughter, a balm soothed some of his fury–some but not all.

Mary's shoulders were shaking underneath Matthew's hand. He felt fear–wild, feral, a real live thing–fear he'd felt from her only once or twice before. Beneath that throbbing terror was the worry. It was written in every letter she had ever sent to Violet, that someday someone would discover the truth about Gracie and look at her differently, treat her differently. "Yes, and I fell in love with _your _granddaughter." Matthew knew how to use his words purposefully. "I was holding her and she looked up at me, crying a little–things were still such a mess between Mary and me–and I knew that Gracie was meant to be mine, that she was always meant to be mine."

A thousand memories passed through Robert's mind in an instant. The morning Mary was born, the shock of dark hair, not only the weight of her in his arms but Cora's words: _Look, she already loves her papa. _He realized in that moment that he was a father, that it was his duty to protect and nurture this little girl. It hadn't mattered that she wasn't a boy. _Look, she already loves her papa. _The first time Mary said the word, the nanny calling for him in the most becoming way, and Mary grinning up at him toothily as she had lifted his arms for him and said clear as day: _Papa. _He'd heard that word from her lips a million times–_Papa, you really must tell Edith that she cannot...Papa, tell me the story about Hercules again...Papa, today the governess hit Sybil across the knuckles for refusing to answer in French. You really should do something about that...Thank you for my horse, Papa! I promise to take such good care of him...Papa, have you ever heard the myth of Andromeda?...I think Sybil is entitled to her opinions, Papa...Why won't you fight for me, Papa?...Papa, I hope you know that really smart people sleep in separate rooms...It is true, what Mama says, Papa?..._

_Papa._

When was the last time, before she left, that she had called him Papa?

He could not remember it, and the pain was piercing in its intensity, like a knife to the gut, sure to be a slow death. And since she had returned, whenever she called him _Papa, _there was always something else in her eyes, be it aggression or shyness or hurt.

It felt like hours since Matthew had last spoken, but it was barely a minute between his last words and Robert's reply. "You were her papa then. From the first."

Everything in Matthew's posture relaxed and Mary stopped crying (yet kept her eyes closed). "Yes," Matthew whispered. "From the first."

Robert wanted to cry. He could not remember the last time the instinct had come over him like this. "You both know...I always hoped that you two would be together...that you would find your way to one another. I am..." he paused. "I cannot explain how furious and sad I am over what happened to you in this house, Mary. I don't have the words. I don't. But I am glad, very glad, that you two have found one another, that you found the good man I always wanted for you, that Gracie has such a good father and so does the child you carry."

Mary opened her eyes. "And Gracie?"

The confusion in Robert's face made Mary smile because it said more than any words could. "What about Gracie?"

"I was very afraid," Mary whispered. "Not that you would think differently of me, but that you would think differently of her. I don't care what people think of me. But I do care what people, what you, think of her."

Robert's smile was sad and old looking, something found in a crinkled sepia toned photograph shoved in the back of an unused drawer. "I saw it before...how motherhood had changed you, made you better than your mother or I ever were. It is good to see it now. I don't think differently of you or of Gracie. She is my granddaughter whom I love, whom I have a lot to make up for. She is yours and Matthew's child. And if you think what you have told me changes anything–"

"And...when you look at her...?"

"When I look at Gracie, I will see what I always have seen–a miniature version of you, a second chance to love her better and more completely, a second chance to listen and to champion her."

"Don't mind me," Mary said through tears, "it's the baby. The hormones. I don't mean to cry but I am so happy. I am so...proud of you, Papa."

"Don't be proud of me, Mary," he shook his head sadly. He felt a million years old–every ache in his body, every joint hurt with grief for her. "I have done a poor job at being your papa..." Even as she shook her head, he continued. "You remember the story of Andromeda and I'm sure Matthew does too. Don't you remember how it all started? Her father sacrificed her."

"You did _not _sacrifice me," Mary rebutted through tears.

"No, but I did not protect you. I did not like Carlisle from the moment I met him. The longer I knew him, the more impatient he grew with you, the more harshly I saw him speaking to you, the few times I saw him grab you...I hated him. There were moments, maybe, if I look back when I think I saw him for what he was and to think perhaps I could have stopped it..."

"No." She stood and moved to him, sitting beside him and taking his hand. "What happened in the small library...it was the worst thing that has ever happened to me. But it gave me Gracie. It gave us all Gracie and I cannot regret that." A single tear slipped from her watery eyes. "_I cannot. _And I don't want you to either."

"What I want to do," Robert replied softly, "is kill him. Slowly. And painfully."

Matthew glanced at Mary and something passed between them.

"But I won't," Robert continued. "Because I have a second chance with you and your children and with Sybil and hers, even with Edith...But I will find a way to get him out of Haxby and away from you."

Mary looked down. "Yes, that might be wise."

"It _is _wise," Matthew said with a hard voice. "He's spoken to Mary and he's done things since...nothing like the small library, but he won't let it go, either. And he can never know...he can _never_ know about..."

"I understand what he can never know, Matthew," Robert assured him. "But what has he done since you returned?"

When Matthew told him about the necklace, about the note, how Mary had not worn red since the small library, Robert put his arm around Mary, but his eyes met Matthew's and they were hard. And when Robert heard that Carlisle visited Mary, speaking of love, something passed between Robert and Matthew even as he kissed his daughter's hair.

Finally, he took Mary's face in his hands. "Thank you for telling me, for trusting me."

"Sorry to be so melodramatic," she laughed, a bit congested from her weeping. "But, Papa," _there was that word again, _"I love you. I always have."

"And I you," he repeated. "And I you."

When tears were dried and everyone had a brandy (except Mary), Robert asked what he thought to be a slightly inane question. "What's happened between you and your Mama? If she has been your ally through this?"

Mary explained, as Matthew sulked, the conversation that had taken place, how Cora viewed Matthew. Mary explained that she understood Cora's venom was born out of jealousy, but it was hard to be around her now, knowing what she thought of Matthew. It was harder still to trust her because as much as Richard could never know the truth, Gracie more than anyone must be protected.

"I will speak to your Mama," Robert said at last, and Mary knew it would be taken care of. Then he was patting her awkwardly and finishing his brandy, excusing himself to go speak with Cora.

Not two steps out of the library, Robert tasted cranberries rising in his throat. Another memory had returned to him. Mary must have been ten, learning to jump her horse, and Robert had come down to watch her. She had shouted from her horse _watch, Papa! _and because he watched, she took the jumps faster than she should have. The horse balked at the last, and she flew over the front of him. _I'm fine, I'm fine, _she had told Lynch and her father and limped home, embarrassed. _She'll be bruised everywhere, _Lynch had predicted, _can't believe she didn't cry. _It had not been until later, when Robert brought her warm milk and took her in his arms, that she wept–a rare thing even then: _I wanted you to be proud of me_, she murmured into his neck. And what had she said recently, about the memory of the sea: _Why did I wait to cry until I was safe with you? Why did I cry once I was safe in your arms?_

The taste of cranberries and bile rose still higher until Robert turned on his heel and walked back into the library. Mary was in Matthew's arms, standing near the window, and he was holding her as she wept. Because it was over. Because she was safe. And before Robert could stop himself, he strode over to them and gently took Mary from her husband's arms, hugging her to him, even with her growing belly, stroking her hair and telling her: _I love you, I am so proud of you. _When she wept all the harder, in her father's arms, he knew it was because she finally felt safe.

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><p><em>AN: I know a lot of you have been waiting for this chapter for a long time. I can only hope I did it justice. If you are new, if you have been with me the whole time, if you have never reviewed before, please, I'm asking, as this story winds down, talk to me. I've put blood sweat and tears into this and appreciate any critique or praise or review. xxoo_


	49. Chapter 49

_A/N: Thank you for all your comments and thoughts and just everything. I still have some to respond to but I really wanted to get this chapter up because I promised it on tumblr (ladonnaingenua) and I do try to keep promises. Thank you to my incredible beta, Faeyero, for fighting the good fight alongside me. She really is too good to me. I am so exhausted I have nothing else to say...nor any idea how I will write the last three to four chapters that will be the most intense and grueling of the story yet. AH!_

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><p>Chapter Forty Nine<p>

For the first time, Edith found herself glad that, years ago, a bullet had stolen one of her husband's arms, because it meant that she was in the driver's seat, in control, the wheel in her hands, driving to her niece's second birthday. Her nerves felt the way motor keys sound when they jangle, even though Mary had assured Edith that everything would be all right and that Gracie probably wouldn't even remember the incident.

"Not remember it?" Edith had exclaimed. "I slapped her quite hard and from her perspective, quite out of the blue."

Edith could hear the wince in Mary's voice through the telephone. "Perhaps you are right. She _may_ remember it." Every word Mary had spoken had been layered with words like _sister _and _mother_, uncertain if those roles would ever really build _something_ instead of tearing it down.

"She will," Edith had insisted, without pity for herself. "How do you apologize to a two year old? How do you explain grief? How do I tell her I will never do it again when I didn't think I was capable of doing such a terribly awful thing in the first place?"

"You just say that you are sorry," Mary had offered. "I've apologized to her before. And so has Matthew."

Edith had rolled her eyes. She just could not picture Lady Mary bending down and _apologizing _to a two year old. Honestly, New York had done such strange things to Mary. "Have you?"

"Of course," Mary had said, as if it were obvious. "If the adults around her don't apologize, how will she ever learn to do it herself?"

"Hmm," Edith had mused. She could not argue with the logic of that. "Well, that explains Papa then. I can't see Granny ever bending down and saying, _I am ever so sorry, darling Robert_." The sisters had giggled together over the telephone line, as they had done...absolutely never before. Then, Mary had very pragmatically suggested that the Strallens come to Crawley House first so that Edith could mend her fences with Gracie without the audience of all of Downton Abbey, both upstairs and downstairs, watching.

When the call had ended, Edith had felt strangely proud of her sister in a way that she could not remember ever feeling, since _everyone was always ever so proud of beautiful, beautiful Mary. _But Mary had changed and was different. The woman who had knelt before Edith and humbly apologized after Edith had acted most heinously to her innocent child proved that. But further still, the bits and pieces Edith saw of her sister, as Edith wound her way through the twisted and confusing path that was grief, continued to astonish her. And at night, when her arms ached to hold her baby boy, when she would remember the old mantras–_Mary gets whatever she wants. Sybil is the spoilt baby. No one ever sees me. I've done everything right, and for what?–_Edith would close her eyes and turn toward her husband, seeking his warmth, and the very solid strength of character that had attracted her to Antony in the first place.

She had felt _entitled_ to a baby. She had not yet learned that there was no such thing as entitlements, not really, not until she had swept her arm up over her face, as much to keep out the light as to keep out the new, strange world where doing the right thing entitled her to nothing at all, not even her own child. So even though she had married a suitable man (whom she happened to love) and stayed close to home, even though she had not disrupted the Strallen household, adhering to the late Lady Strallen's way of doing things–from how the table was set to how she made love to the late Lady Strallen's husband–Edith had not been granted a baby. Lately, when she had turned to her solid husband in the night, for warmth and comfort, she hadn't cared to be the proper lady-wife, lying beneath him as he did as he pleased (and not easily, with one useless arm). The first night they had come together again, after losing Patrick, she had climbed atop him and found that lovemaking could be fierce and stormy and passionate once she forgot about doing all the _right _things. Because now she knew the truth, that even though all the old crows made it seem like lovemaking was really just _babymaking_, a duty to husband and to family, it could be much more than that. It could start to heal a wound. It could make her forget. It could remind her that she was alive and living and not in the ground with her baby, something that she desperately needed to be reminded of on those days when she felt as if she were drowning. Edith had found she was not interested in boring, too-gentle _babymaking_ (that had not even provided her with a child in the first place) but she had found that she was interested in lovemaking–the fierce kind, the stormy kind, the passionate kind, the kind that thought little to nothing of babies but only about the giving and receiving of pleasure.

Today, her mother would ask _how she was doing _(a question that managed to convey care and concern without mentioning words like _baby _and _dead_), just like some of the women at church did (the ghastly Doctor Clarkson had made her shame practically public knowledge and Edith wondered what Mama would say, what they all would say if Edith explained that at first her grief had been mean with teeth like an animal trap. It tore at her viciously and she tore at those around her. Then it had become something else; grief had left her despondent and depressed until one night, months after they had laid Patrick to rest, Edith had experienced her first orgasm. _How am I doing? _Edith might say, _well, whenever I am sad, I make passionate love to my husband until my eyes roll back into my head and I can't think at all. _Oh, she wished she had the courage to say that, at least to her mama, but she also knew that Antony would turn scarlet and the _Good God Salt Incident _of years past would look minuscule compared to what he would say if put in such a position. So she wouldn't put him in such a position–or perhaps she would, Edith thought with a smile, but not until after the party when they were alone in their room.

Thoughts of her husband and "the grieving process" (Edith had to stifle a giggle, calling it that) distracted her enough on the way to Crawley House. But by the time she had parked and turned off the engine, she was nervous all over again. Her husband took her hand in his. She could feel the heat of his fingers through her gloves. "It will be all right," he told her as he watched her solemnly. She squeezed his fingers, thankful that he was kind and good and had not stopped loving her upon seeing the worst of her, which he certainly had since her labor, most especially when she had slapped Grace. He had comforted her even when she had felt unworthy of comfort, when she had raged at him, only gently telling her that, once, Edith had not taken no for an answer (when it came to their marriage) and now, neither would he.

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><p>Gracie knew it was her birthday because everyone kept telling her so. Mama and Papa had come into her room that morning, smiling and laughing, kissing her, telling her that she was two years old and that today was her very special day. Geepapa had come over as he always did in the mornings. Except this time, before they went outside for their lessons with Baby, he had sat at the table with her Mama and Papa and Gran Iz and they had all (including Molesley and a weepy Mrs. Byrd) sung her Happy Birthday. Then, she had blown out the candle Mama herself had put in the very special scone (her first all-to-herself-scone) that the Baker Lady had made especially for Gracie (it was smaller than Mama's scones and shaped in a heart). It had tasted very delicious and Papa had said that she didn't have to share a bite with anyone but she had anyway with Geepapa who had remarked, "This is quite good, really, I must say."<p>

Then, Geepapa had taken her and Baby to the backyard where they usually had their lessons. But first he had given Gracie _one _of her gifts (the other being a special trip to Ripon, just the two of them, where she could pick out any book she liked) and she had squealed at the sight of the pink dog collar and matching leash which even she could tell were made very fine, if only because Geepapa gave them to her and that they were pink! When Mama had seen she had laughed so hard, holding her enormous belly, and sighed: "Oh, Papa! I cannot imagine you buying a pink patent leather leash and collar! I just can't." Mama had looped her arm through Geepapa's which made Grace very happy to see, and Geepapa had tried not to smile as he said that yes, he had bought it and when Gracie was strong enough to walk Baby, it would be put to good use. "It's perfect, Papa," Mama had told him, winking at Gracie, and it had been as if Mama's arm through Geepapa's and Mama's wink perfectly summed up Gracie's feeling on the matter as well.

If the day wasn't already the most wonderful of her _entire _life, Mama had said that she did not have to take a nap if she did not want to, but that instead they could play on Mama's and Papa's bed and Gracie could talk to her baby sibling, as she liked to do, and press her hand to Mama's humongous stomach and feel the baby moving inside of Mama. It was too wonderful to be believed (sometimes Gracie wondered if there really was a baby inside of there)! After awhile, Gracie had begun to knuckle her eyes, after talking to, touching, and kissing Mama's belly, and cuddled there with her mother, yawning. Mama had said, "Now, remember you only take a nap if you want to..." and somehow Gracie had felt as if she had been tricked (in a good way, she supposed) before she fell asleep on her mother's rather pillowy bosom. And, really Mama, must have been tired too, carrying all that belly around.

Later, Papa had come home early, and she had run to him and he had spun her around, whispering into her ear, "Happy Birthday, my darling girl." She had squeezed him so tight then because in that moment she felt all those things–that she was _his darling _girl. He had kissed Mama too, long enough so that Gracie had laughed and pushed them apart, giggling, "Booooosh!"

But then, Mama had broken the news that that Grandmama had given her a very pretty dress for her birthday, and that Gracie would be wearing it when they went up to dinner at the big house. She had supposed that the dress was pretty to _look at_–a very pretty shade of purple, like the lavender Mama liked to keep throughout the house–but it was not a dress she would be able to play in. None of Grandmama's dresses ever were. But as Mama had brushed her hair and done up the buttons, she had promised that Gracie could do whatever she liked in that dress, that she could act as unladylike as she wanted because today she was two years old and it was special. Gracie had smiled but she did not think Grandmama would agree.

Now, Mama was kneeling in front of her, looking very serious. "Gracie," she said gently with a smile. "Aunt Edith is coming to your birthday party."

Gracie shook her head. "No, no, no, no, no, no!"

Mama took held her hands and kissed her nose. "Gracie, Aunt Edith made a horrible mistake. What she did was not all right. It was very, very wrong. And she is going to apologize to you."

Gracie looked for her papa, who was dressed very handsome in his suit, but who would not meet her eyes, as he stared at something else, his brow low, his hand to his mouth. Papa was not happy with Aunt Edith either.

Gracie didn't mean to start to start to tear up; it just happened. "Owie!" she cried, pointing to her hand as if there would still be a mark there.

Mama kissed her hand many times. "I am so sorry, Gracie," Mama murmured, looking into her eyes. "You know that I love you very much, right?" Gracie nodded. "Aunt Edith is my sister. Like this baby"–she took Gracie's hand and placed it on her belly–"will be your sister or brother. And sometimes people make mistakes. But if they are sorry..."

Papa made a sound in his throat and moved with much noise. Mama sighed at him. She hung her head and sighed and seemed so sad for a moment that Gracie kissed the crown of her head. "Gracie," Mama said, meeting her eyes and smiling again, "if you don't want to see Aunt Edith then you don't have too. We can..."

The doorbell rang.

Papa sighed and stood, lending his hand to Mama, because she could no longer get up on her own. Then he leaned down and picked up Gracie. He whispered into her ear: "Your Aunt Edith is not a bad person. I will be with you a whole time. I will hold you the whole time. All right?"

Gracie nodded and smiled because Papa and Mama looked so worried. But it no longer felt like her very special day.

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><p>Mary met Edith in the doorway. She took her sister's hands in her own. "I don't know how this will go," she said honestly. "I just broached the subject with Gracie and she does remember. She seems a little scared. Edith," Mary paused, taking a breath. Sometimes it was so hard to be a mother, to know when to do the right thing. Of course, now she had Matthew to talk things over with, and he had very cautiously agreed (after much persuasion on Mary's part) to this plan. But neither of them wanted to upset Gracie; moreover, Mary knew that Edith did not want to upset her either. "But, come in. Let's just see." She tried to sound positive.<p>

Gracie was in Matthew's arms, with one eyebrow raised, when Mary and Edith both saw her. "Oh, dear," Mary murmured because in that moment, Gracie was an exact replica of the little Mary that Edith had contended with in childhood.

"Hello, Gracie," Edith said as calmly as she could. "Happy Birthday! We've brought you a present."

Gracie's eyebrow lowered fractionally but she would not be bought. "Owie," she replied sullenly, holding out her hand. "You."

"Yes," Edith said, taking another step forward. "I did give you an owie and it was very bad of me, very wrong. I was sad. But you did nothing wrong, Grace. It was only me that was bad."

Mary knew that Gracie was smart enough to comprehend what Edith was saying and how she was saying it. "I am very sorry," Edith continued. "I would do anything, _anything_, if I could take it back." By the end of her speech, Edith's voice was filled with unshed tears and Gracie sat up in her father's arms a little straighter and lowered her eyebrow completely.

"E," Gracie said.

"Edith," Mary supplied.

"Dith," Gracie repeated. "Dithy." She wiggled down from her father's arms and walked cautiously towards her aunt and the present at her feet. "Two," she explained, looking up at Edith. "Me." Mary held her breath and when she looked down at her daughter there was such pride in her face because Gracie had done what neither Mary nor Edith had been able to do their whole lives–humble themselves to one another.

"Yes," Edith tried not to weep. "You are two. Happy Birthday. Here is your present."

Gracie ripped into the paper and Edith knelt to help her open the box and inside there was a whole farm with a tractor and cows and chickens and pigs. "Moo! Pock Pock! Oink!" Gracie demonstrated with glee.

"How smart you are!" Edith placed the tractor on the carpet, next to the farmhouse. "Vroom," she offered, a bit hesitantly.

"Vroom," Gracie repeated, savoring the new word. "Vroom."

And when they all piled into the Strallens' car, Gracie said it again: "Vroom," making everyone laugh.

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><p>Feeling a bit sorry for her mother, Mary had agreed to a small, casual, en famille meal at the Abbey. Robert's dress reflected this mandate. His wife, he noticed, was wearing one of her finest dresses, asking O'Brien if she thought the diamond brooch was too much. Robert shook his head and dismissed O'Brien sullenly. He didn't savor fighting with his wife and yet it seemed necessary.<p>

"She's barely finished my hair, Robert," Cora complained into the mirror, admiring herself.

"You know what Mary asked and you are purposely choosing to ignore it," Robert stated a bit harshly. "I also know you sent outfits, fancy outfits, to all of the grandchildren. Sybil said that Maggie's outfit was so ornate, Sybil is considering having her christened in it. Why are you doing this? What point do you hope to prove?"

"Oh, Robert," Cora cooed, as if he was teasing her. They had already had quite the row about the entire situation and what she had said to Matthew. Robert had always just thought the sun rose and set on _Matthew. _"Just because they've finally decided to clue you into the _big secret_ doesn't mean you know everything," she told him, her voice sounding as if she were singing a rather cheerful song.

Robert raised his eyebrows. While he loved his wife, and while he knew her to possess a quiet strength, sometimes her emotional maturity was left wanting. "If by _big secret_, you mean that our daughter was..." He wanted to use any word other than the real one–violated, accosted, attacked–but he remembered what Mary had said and how she had looked when she said it, that words like those made it _small_. He could not imagine her courage. "If by _big secret_," he began again, "you mean that our eldest daughter was _raped_ in our own home, then yes. I was finally told. But I cannot imagine how you can manage to speak of it so lightly." By the end of the tirade, he was sputtering. "Moreover, I am warning you, Cora..."

"What?" she asked, coldly. "What are you warning me of?"

"If you don't apologize and recant those awful things you said to Matthew..."

She stood from the vanity and whirled on him. "Recant? How can I recant what is _true_? I admitted then and I admit now that he is a father figure, Robert. But he isn't her _father_."

"Are you deliberately trying to bait me, Cora?" he asked. He did not want to yell. He did not want the servants to hear. "Matthew looks at Gracie the same way I looked at the three daughters you bore me and is a better father than I ever was."

"But they aren't blood related, no matter how Mary wishes it–"

"Cora, you know _why _Mary wishes it! You should wish it too! You should wish _so badly_ that it is true!" He felt like pulling what hair he had left out of his head. That she could be so deliberately dense or so deliberately cruel made him feel old. Ancient, really.

"Well I just don't see why Isobel, a woman who is not related to Grace in any way, shape, or form, gets to spend so much time with _my _granddaughter and even Robbie." Cora's voice went guttural. Her cheeks were an angry red. "And on top of that, _your mother_..."

"Cora," Robert hissed as soon as she began what had become her constant refrain for much of their marriage. "_Shut up._ I forbid you from speaking or even _thinking_ anything other than these facts: Matthew is Gracie's father. Isobel is Gracie's grandmother, as are you. My mother is her great-grandmother, and I should think," he had to pause, he had to gather himself, "that you would be _happy, _as I am, that Gracie has so many people in her life who love her, that my mother is well enough that Gracie and Robbie can make memories with her, that it was my mother who helped Mary through the toughest time in her life and kept her sane."

"You'll see," she whispered at him. "When Mary has his_ real_ child, how quickly things will change, and with Isobel too. Do you think they'll find Gracie _so darling _then? And as for you, I can't imagine how you'll fawn over it, if it's a boy. That was always the first thing you wanted to know whenever I gave birth."

"Are you hoping for that–that Matthew's very character will change and he will look at the new baby differently, that I go back to being obsessed about this heir business?" Robert asked, at once exhausted. "And no, you are wrong. I know you are wrong, both about Matthew and Isobel and about me. And I find it very disturbing that after all of Mary's worrying that anyone would think differently of Gracie, her own mother would be the one to prove her right." He took his angry wife by the shoulders. "If you don't rein in this jealousy, if you don't start acting differently, you will lose them–"

"As if you're one to talk, Robert." She rolled her eyes.

"I _am_ one to talk. Besides the fact that I am your husband, _I_ almost lost them and that loss would have been a great one." He shook her a little, as if she were a child. "As I was saying, if you don't start acting differently, and yes, _thinking _differently, you will lose them. And Cora, so help me, if sides are to be picked, I won't be on yours. Mary and Matthew won't let you near their family because one day, without even thinking, you could ruin everything they've done, everything they've worked for in trying to protect Gracie from the truth."

She rolled her eyes again. "I would never tell Grace anything. _Please_."

"Well, God only knows what you've already _hinted _at with O'Brien, whom I wouldn't trust with anything other than your hair. And besides that, children grow up and they sense things, Cora. For as long as I can remember, your feelings have never been subtle; learn to rein them in or you will not be invited to Christmas Dinner, _my_ Christmas dinner, here at my table, with our grandchildren." He slammed the door on his way out.

* * *

><p>It really had been one of the best days of her entire life, Gracie thought, as she reached up a hand to play with her hair and Papa dealt with her nappy. It was so much fun to be with everyone, even Dithy (Dithy had gotten on the floor with Gracie and Robbie and booshed his toy cars together, making <em>wonderful<em> noises and sounds; she'd even promised to show Gracie and Robbie a real engine sometime, if they wanted...which of course, they did). Dinner had been some of her favorite things–potatoes and chicken and not a single green bean. Then they had eaten chocolate ice cream and chocolate cake which had been delicious especially because she knew Mama had fought for it, hearing Mama on the telephone very clearly saying: _Mama, I will not fight about desserts. Gracie likes chocolate cake and chocolate ice cream and that is final. And nothing too fancy. _Please, _Mama._

Afterwards, Syb had even let Gracie hold new baby Maggie (though there had been several adults hovering and pillows to support her arms). "You have to practice, you know," Sybil had told her as she looked at the baby adoringly. "You'll be a big sister soon." Maggie was very pretty, much prettier than any baby doll Gracie had ever seen. She had long eyelashes and blond hair and plump lips like Aunt Syb but she'd slept the whole time Gracie held her (which had been a bit boring). But Aunt Syb had praised her, saying, "Look what a a natural you are, Gracie girl. She hasn't even cried for her mummy while you've held her." Gracie felt very proud at that compliment (and wasn't it funny how Robbie and Maggie called their mama and papa Mummy and Da?).

Later, Syb, Tom, and Robbie had given her her own set of swords, only these were painted, pink and silver, with buttons that looked like jewels. Grandpapa had laughed and said, "Tom, you've outdone me."

"It's called Writer's Block," Tom had replied and laughed (though Gracie did not know what he meant, only that Syb and Tom knew she loved to play with Robbie's swords and now she had her own). "Robbie's picked out paint for his. You're welcome to come and help."

"I think I will," Grandpapa had responded with a smile. "We will need manlier buttons though, for Robbie's hilt."

Grandmama had given her a present–her very own rocking horse so that she could have one at Grandmama's _and _at Crawley House–and one to Robbie as well, with promises to ship it when they needed to go back to Ireland. But then Grandmama had gotten very quiet, a little bit like when Mama told Gracie something she did not want to hear, which did not make much sense to Gracie because Grandmama had been the one to say the thing about Ireland in the first place. Gracie had not meant to hear Tom's quiet words to Syb, _Looks like your mama forgot a rocking horse is waiting for Robbie back home already. _It had made Gracie a bit sad, not what Tom had said, but the way Grandmama always smiled so hard and tight, how her voice could sound so pretty one moment and so ugly the next. Most importantly, Gracie had known that Grandmama was pouting because whenever Gracie acted as Grandmama had been Mama or Papa would say: _Stop pouting or you'll be sent to bed early._

But then Gracie had forgotten all about Grandmama (which really had not been hard to do at all) because Granny Vi and Gran Iz (even Robbie called her that, and Grandmama made a face whenever he did, as if she'd drunk sour lemonade) rolled out a tricycle, a shiny red one. "This is from the both of us," Granny Vi had announced.

"The both of you?" Grandmama had asked, suddenly coming out of her pout.

"Yes," Granny Vi had replied, staring at Grandmama very hard. "We bought it together. We don't want to spoil the girl." Then Granny Vi had cupped Gracie's face in her hands and said, "I love you," in a very gruff voice, as if she was unused to saying it. "You are a very good girl."

Then, Mama and Papa had given her their gift and it was sitting in her room right now as Papa put her in her pajamas. Mama was sitting in the big rocking chair and beside it was a matching, Gracie-sized rocking chair. Mama was smiling, her eyes half closed as she rubbed circles around her belly. "Gracie, when I am rocking the baby, you can rock too."

"Yes!" Papa let her down to the floor. She went to over to Mama and touched her knee. "You," she said. "Here," she added, knocking on the wood of the bigger chair even as she possessively moved her chair away from Mama. "Mama is too big."

Mama stopped rocking. Papa looked at Mama. "Did she just say her first complete sentence?" Papa asked Mama, his eyes very wide.

"Yes, she did," Mama said with some shock in her voice, and then she raised an eyebrow and began to tap her fingers on the chair."Did she just call me _big_?"

"Yes," Gracie giggled walking back towards Mama, holding her hands out in front of her stomach. "Belly is so, so, so, so, so, so big!"

Mama leaned down awkwardly to gently pinch her a nose, laughing and crying a little at the same time (which by now, Gracie was used to...she really hoped it stopped once the baby came). "Well, aren't you a clown."

Papa picked her up. "She isn't a clown, are you, darling? Tell Mama how pretty she is," he insisted.

Gracie shrugged honestly. "Pretty and big."

Mama and Papa were both laughing as they kissed her goodnight and laid her in her crib (she did not want to be rocked tonight). Mama whispered, "Sweet dreams, darling girl. Happy second birthday. You are very smart and we are very proud of you."

Papa added: "We love you very much."

They closed the lights and left the door ajar and Gracie fell asleep, a blissfully happy, blissfully normal two year old girl.

* * *

><p>Mary reclined on the bed without taking her clothes off. She was thoroughly exhausted but thoroughly happy. "I think that went well, considering," she told Matthew as he began to undress.<p>

"I agree, considering." He undid his cufflinks. "Your mama is still very unhappy with us."

Mary sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes. "Yes, with us, and with Sybil and Tom, probably with Edith too, and definitely with Papa."

"Don't forget your Granny and my mother," Matthew added, as he sat on her side of the bed, and slid his hand up under her dress to her knee.

"No, we mustn't forget them. Matthew." Mary sat up a bit on her elbows. "You're naked."

"Darling," he murmured as he leaned forward to kiss her, lingering there, his hand still on her knee. "You are so observant. Do you want to know what else?"

"What?" she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"You're about to join me," he told her and went to work right away. It was actually very surprising, really, since she hadn't quite felt like being together in _that _way these past few days, and he had been very understanding. Though his kiss ignited something inside of her chest, as it always did, she didn't know if she had the energy for _that _(since it really did take quite a bit of energy and imagination with her _so, so, so, so big belly, _as their daughter kindly called it). "Don't worry," he murmured, as he continued to undress her, as if he could read every thought in her head. "We're only going to take a relaxing bath. I'm not about to pounce on you."

"Last time we took a bath..." she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, well, I am definitely sure that the maneuver used that time will be impossible now." He grinned and rubbed her belly. "Honestly, all I want to do is be in the bath with you and feel your belly move under my hand. It's a picture I've had in my head since before we were even married."

She was suddenly aware that she was naked, but before she could complain about the harsh lighting he was lifting her and carrying her into the bathroom. "Matthew," she complained. "I am too heavy."

"Please," he scoffed. "I imagine you're now the weight of an average-sized woman. You were so slight before."

She smiled sweetly at him. "And how many average-sized women have you carried?" she asked as he turned on the water.

He kissed her again, even as she squealed when he set her naked backside on the counter by the sink, waiting for the water, and stepped between her legs. Her belly brushed against his so he had to lean up to kiss her and before she knew it, her legs were pulling him closer (or as close as they could, really) and her head was falling back while he sucked on her throat (she supposed _that _ didn't have to require much effort on her part). "Nothing happens tonight that you don't want to, all right?" he asked. "I mean it, Mary. If you're too tired, or you just don't feel like it, I'll live."

"All right," she agreed, a bit more breathlessly than before, and suddenly she wasn't so very tired anymore.

The warm (but not hot) water did feel wonderful when she stepped in and he helped her to sit, before sitting behind her, her back to his chest. "Matthew!" she cried. "There's no bubbles." He could see _everything. _

"That's a bit of the point," Matthew laughed into her ear as the hair at the back of her neck began to curl with the humidity. For a moment, he nuzzled there. "Really, this whole fantasy is not even my fault. _You_ were the one talking about it. And before we were even married, too. Very naughty." They laughed and his hands came around to rub her belly. "She's active," he noted, feeling the baby move, and at least a couple of hard kicks.

"He's always like this at bedtime," Mary replied, leaning her head back against Matthew's shoulder, turning her head a bit to press her lips to his throat, just a brush of them. "So was Gracie."

"Ignore that," Matthew said after a moment. "I meant what I said earlier, that I just wanted a bath and if you're not up for anything else–"

"Well, you're certainly _up _for something," she replied, her lips now moving torturously against his throat as she spoke. "And it's a bit hard to ignore _that."_

"I'm not doing it on purpose," he defended. "It's just that my wife is so beautiful and naked and wet and slippery." His hands proved it, slipping over her belly to her thighs, then back up again to her breasts, circling the nipples once before settling again on her stomach.

"Regardless, it isn't happening in this tub," Mary told him. "It would be physically impossible. We can review the issue once we are in bed. But it is _hard _to ignore, you know." One of her hands left the edge of the tub and slipped into the water behind her to stroke him once. He groaned and she smiled, repeating the gesture before bringing her hand above water again.

His head fell forward so that he could kiss her shoulder, open mouthed kisses that he put all his effort into (which meant they were quite well done), up her neck until she turned her head as far as she could so they could kiss as deeply as possible at such an angle. Then suddenly, "What! Was that..." Matthew cried and Mary laughed. He was looking at her stomach. "That had to hurt."

"A little," Mary admitted, her hand covering his on her belly. "But it's going to get worse...And then the labor. Don't get me started."

There was another kick. "Mary," Matthew said breathlessly. "I think I just felt her foot. I think I actually felt a little foot."

"_His_ foot," she corrected. "And yes. You did." She pressed his hand more deeply into her stomach (he was always afraid of the amount of pressure to use) and yes, there was a tiny foot.

"A foot," he repeated, awed. "Her little foot."

"_His_," Mary corrected.

"Speaking of, Mary, I can't believe you agreed, when your father brought it up, to having the baby at Downton Abbey." His hands continued to search her belly for movement.

"It's actually quite practical," Mary argued. "I don't relish the thought of giving birth on our actual bed with our actual linens, Matthew. It is very...messy."

"I'm sure it is," Matthew agreed, "but that's not the whole of it."

"No," she said slowly. "Someday that place will be our home, you know. And after staying there, even for a few days, I realized there are so many good memories and so many bad ones. I know, when Gracie was born, so many bad memories were erased for me. I'd like to have our baby there, because someday we will live there and what a wonderful memory it will be to know that he was born there."

"All right, yes, I see," Matthew agreed but he sighed. "Your granny also mentioned there is a tradition, that an heir be born in his future house..."

"I'm aware of that, Matthew," Mary replied, putting her hands back in the water and rubbing his legs soothingly. "Once upon a time, I'm sure Papa would have broached the subject with us in those terms. But he didn't. Do I think I am carrying a boy, your heir? Yes, probably. But I could so easily be wrong. It's really much more about the linens," she laughed. "You can't imagine what it's like." She turned her head to kiss him again.

"And the good memories," he said against her lips. She nodded. "I just wouldn't want you to feel pressured."

She shook her head. "I don't feel pressured. I think...I really think I am the happiest I have been in so long. I mean, since we met six months ago...You've changed my life so much for the better, Matthew." She bit her lip to keep from crying. "And I've been happy, so happy. But coming back here has been hard too–even with you by my side, because I never would have been able to do it without you. But now things with Papa..." she sighed and shuddered to keep from crying. "Well, I just feel as if years of nastiness have been cleared away. And this baby is healthy and strong. And Gracie is so happy. And I love you. I love you so much." She turned her face into his neck. "And I trust you. You know that's even harder for me than love. I trust you and Papa to take care of...the other _matter. _And I have a baby niece and my sisters and I are together and whole. And just...I feel as if I could just sit here, like this, in this moment of life with you forever." She didn't speak of her mother who felt more like a pesky fly than a wound, as her relationship with her father had. She kissed his throat until he gave her access to his lips and she kissed him deeply. "Make time stand still with me, Matthew."

He stroked her belly. "Well, not forever. I would like to meet our daughter," and as a concession he added, "or our son."

"Oh, me too." She squeezed her eyes shut. "It's like a dream. These past six months." As much as she could, she turned a bit in his arms and kissed him, tracing his lips, opening her mouth to his and the kiss, the ghost of his hands over her belly–it _was_ like a dream. Her hands clung to his thighs and began to stroke higher, reaching again behind her so that again he groaned, his head falling forward to her shoulder. "Matthew," she whispered. "Will you take me to bed now?"

He'd already pulled the drain out with his foot and one of his hands moved from her belly to her breast, now that it was above water, and he began to circle her nipple delicately, the barest of touches, with the pads of his fingers. One of her arms bent back around his neck as they kissed, now deeply and urgently. Around those kisses, she asked, "How _will _we get out of here?" His mouth ate her words even as his desire muddled his brain and he tried to think.

"Me first, I think," he whispered. But they didn't move for some time.

"Matthew," she mouthed against his lips. "There is no water left in the tub."

"Are you cold?" he asked, brushing his hand against her hardened nipples again.

"Not cold, no," she replied. "But please, let's go to bed. Where we can...Where we can...I'll get a crick in my neck this way."

It felt like torture to untangle himself from her as he stood and got out of the tub. She, very ungracefully, tried to lift herself up and failed. He bent down and lifted her. "Careful you don't slip!" she warned him, briefly thinking of her mother. But he was careful. She could feel it in the sturdiness of his steps and the gentleness of his arms.

On the bed, when he slid inside her and began to move behind her, she could only think: _I love this man. I love this man. _

It had been that morning, before they woke Gracie with cheers for her birthday, that she had written Gracie a letter. She'd seen the way her letters had moved Matthew and she'd thought, wouldn't be wonderful if she wrote each of the children a letter on their birthdays? He'd obviously had the same idea because as she'd searched his desk for paper, she'd found his own version.

She'd read it without a second thought:

_My darling Gracie,_

_I can hardly believe that today you are two years old. From the first moment I saw your face, I have loved you. Watching you grow up is a privilege I hardly deserve but I store up all the moments, the memories (Mama has taught me how to do this) so that later, when you are too old to run for me when I come from work, and yell, "Papa," and squeal with delight (though please, never stop; even if you are sixteen, I will still twirl you around as I do now), I will remember._

_You are such a good girl. I want you to know that. There is something extraordinary about you that has the power to dissolve even the hardest of hearts. Perhaps it is your smile, your laugh, the way you blink your long eyelashes, or even the way you raise your eyebrow like your Mama does. But I want you to know that you are special. And I don't just say that because I am your papa. I say that because it is true. I have known it since the first moment I held you._

_If I had one wish for you, it would be that I could bottle all the love people have for you, not just from mama and me but from Granny Vi, Gran Iz, Grandpapa, Grandmama, Aunt Syb, Uncle Tom, Robbie, Maggie...everyone. They love you so much. Everything you do is a delight to us. I wish I could bottle all of this. I wish I could bottle our cheers when you say a new word or perform a new task. So that when you are older and the world is cruel to you, or a boy is too stupid to recognize your priceless worth, I could open that jar for you and release all those feelings (after I find the boy and hurt him). So you could always remember what it means to be loved this completely and simply. And it wouldn't matter what the world had done or what some boy had said. Because you would remember how much and how long people have loved you. _

_Your mama is much better at words than I am. She writes such beautiful things about you. I can only say that I love you, more than I ever thought possible, and that I am infinitely proud to be your papa. You will always be our beloved, first born. _

_Love,_

_Papa_

Mary had wept, of course. And her only thoughts then had been: _I love this man. I love this man._

* * *

><p>The next morning, he woke her with a kiss. She grunted at him (she still was not a morning person) but rose with him and began the day. Gracie wanted to use her tricycle and Mary struggled to convince her to wait for papa because she knew that Matthew would want to teach her, that it would be one of those memories he would want to store up.<p>

Thank goodness for the distraction of her father who arrived for his training session with Baby and Gracie. Even Mary had to admit that the dog was becoming much better behaved, even if the beast left hair everywhere.

So she was sitting on the divan, cursing under her breath as she tried to knit Maggie a blanket (she had never been good at such things) when the doorbell rang. She heard the patter of Molesley's feet, the door opening, and she stood, prepared to greet her visitor–Sybil, perhaps, or even Edith.

"Lady Carlisle, milady," Molesley announced.

Mary dropped her knitting but recovered enough to give Molesley a sharp nod that had him departing. "What are you doing here?" Mary asked in a harsh whisper as she advanced on Marianne. "Is no place sacred to you?" The woman turned her head. Her blackened eye said it all. "Well, come on then," Mary said, grabbing her coat. "Let's walk."

* * *

><p><em>AN: I don't know what to say except...and so it begins...(hopefully I do the climax of the story justice in these upcoming chapters). I wouldn't mind a pick me up in the form of a review. _


	50. Chapter 50

_A/N: Hello. Well, here we are, Chapter 50. Sorry it is taking us a bit longer to produce these chapters. They are, literally, longer and we want them to be the highest quality since it is the end. With three to four chapters left, I have a million tiny details that must fall into place for my ending to work and so please, you know, give me some grace. And give a hand to Faeyero, my trusty friend, who even though she was very sick this weekend, still managed to knock this one out of the park. Couldn't do it without you, girl. Thanks to everyone who have continually commented and alerted the story. And I love the newcomers who are just joining us now. I love hearing you couldn't pull away from the computer for a day or two :)_

* * *

><p>Chapter Fifty<p>

It was true–in another world, Marianne and Mary could have been confused as sisters. Mary's eyes were perhaps more chocolate than Marianne's gold, and Marianne's eyebrows–straight across and simple–could not compete with the artistry of Mary's perfectly formed, perfectly arched eyebrows. Without those eyebrows, Marianne would have been rendered the ordinary "sister," the simple one, because how could she accomplish the wide-eyed look Mary had perfected or arch an eyebrow in arrogance or flirtation as Mary could?

Of course now, all of this–the intricacies of the ways they did and did not resemble one another–was rendered pointless. As they walked in the brisk autumn air (oh, Mary wished she had remembered gloves!), there was one very clear, very poignant difference between the two women.

Mary did not understand why people called it _a black eye_ since she had never seen a black eye that was actually black. Marianne's eye socket was bruised purple, with bits of blue at the outer edges. Mary supposed that the expression–_black eye–_may have come from the parts of the bruise so purple it might as well as not be purple anymore since it was nearly as black as licorice. Surely those were the points where Richard's knuckles, the points of his fists, had rammed into Marianne's face, _her black eye._

For many minutes, they did not speak. That eye–that purple, blackened patch covering one of Marianne's eyes–spoke with an eloquence Marianne had never accomplished in Lady Mary's presence. It spoke simply, without nervousness. It did not ramble. It did not vomit out words, loosed from the mouth of a woman who was afraid of her own shadow. It did not make allusions, thinly veiled, to violences Mary and Marianne may have shared. It did not have to. If ever there was a thing to speak for itself, it was Marianne's _black eye._

"Marianne," Mary began abruptly–for how else could she begin a conversation such as this? "I want to help you. And I think you want me to help you. You wouldn't be here, showing me your eye, if you didn't. But I need to be able to trust you. I need you to be honest with me. I need to know it all." Mary stopped walking but kept her hands in her coat pockets as she turned to face Marianne, to face that purple, blackened eye, and the ugliness of it. She winced, not at the ugliness of that eye, but at the violence that caused it, and the thought of the man who had turned a beautiful face purple and blue and black. "I need to hear it all, from the very beginning. No rambling, no nervousness. Just tell me. Like it's a story, like it happened to someone else. Because if I help you..."

_Because if I help you, you have no idea what I am risking and I need to know what I am risking this all for._

Marianne nodded. Her face did not jerk spastically, little twitches that normally came whenever she talked to Mary. It was as if Richard's punch had knocked all the silliness out of Marianne; she was empty of all the pressure of speaking to _the _Lady Mary and all the jerky gestures that came with that pressure, that had frightened Mary in the first place.

They found a bench (tales like this were too long to be told standing) and, looking straight ahead, Marianne began to speak her story, giving it words, unraveling it all like a ball of yarn that had fallen from her lap and rolled and rolled out of her grasp, beyond her reach.

* * *

><p>Marianne grew up in a house with ten people, the eldest of six children. They were poor but she didn't know that until later. Here is what Marianne remembered: her father kissing her mother while her mother stirred something at the stove.<p>

The ninth member of the household was her mother's brother; he was _slow_, or at least that was how his family lovingly described him. He needed help remembering things–buttoning his shirt the right way, washing behind his ears-but was a killer when it came to rummy. No one ever won against Uncle Joe. He was older than Marianne's mother but he had been entrusted to her. He could not work and never seemed to age.

The tenth member of the household had been Grandfather–her father's father–who had been quiet yet surly. He had often had crumbs from biscuits on his shirt that her mother had to wipe away. While he lived, the neighbors said that Mrs. Evans–Marianne's mother–had ten children. After Grandfather passed, the neighbors said Mrs. Evans had nine. Of course, Marianne hadn't known that until later, either.

Their flat offered three bedrooms. Mr. Evans, against city code, added on bits of haphazard pieces to the back of the house where Uncle Joe and Grandfather stayed. Marianne shared a room with two of her sisters, and her three brothers shared the other. Her parents had their own room, so small a bed barely fit. But this is what Marianne remembered: making gingerbread in a cold but cheerful kitchen, kicking her sisters when they moved her to the edge of the bed but missing them if one of them slipped into bed with their parents, wearing extra socks to bed in the winter and thinking nothing of it.

Mrs. Evans didn't work, though she often took on sewing and knitting for some money. Here is what Marianne remembered: her mother always with yarn in her hands or brightly colored fabric, always making something for someone and smiling while she did it. Marianne had not known until later that her mother's fingers pained her and her knuckles swelled. Eventually, Mrs. Evans hands–arthritic–became gnarled and ugly while the rest of her remained seemingly young.

Mr. Evans, her father, built things–whatever that meant, wherever he could find work. Sometimes it was roofs, sometimes it was painting houses, sometimes it was framing a building. Here is what Marianne remembered: his thick black mustache that tickled when he kissed her and the way he always kept his hands impeccably clean despite his work. She had not known until later that there were days Mr. Evans's back pained him so badly he could not walk down the stairs without Mrs. Evans. Or that her mother also had to feed him whiskey for breakfast until the pain was bearable and he could work and provide for his family. Though he'd hated the taste of alcohol, it was the only medicine they could (almost) afford.

Her parents loved her. Somehow, in the midst of that life–the one she remembered, the reality of it, and the mixture of the two–they made her believe that she was smart and capable, quick and clever. They found a way to pay for the typewriter and the shorthand class (Uncle Joe gave up his birthday money and Grandfather produced a wad of bills no one knew he had). Eventually, she was hired. It was a small position, in the building that housed the main staff of Sir Richard Carlisle's newspaper empire.

For her interview, Mrs. Evans made her eldest the smartest suit she could, her swollen knuckles working to seam and line and flatter Marianne's figure. Marianne wore that same suit on her first day at work, feeling very smart-looking and happy because she knew she had the brains to back it up. On that first day, as her superior showed her around, Marianne happened to glance up. She saw a woman in a sharp hat and red suit (the most posh and the most beautiful she'd ever seen) with such a serious face and firmed lips set against a pale complexion. When the woman left, the superior whispered, _That's Lady Mary Crawley. Very important. Very rich. _Marianne only nodded because she didn't know what to say except that Lady Mary Crawley also looked very resigned. But to what?

The next day, the engagement between Lady Mary and Sir Richard was announced and Marianne, curious by nature, forced herself not to make up a story about that meeting, that resigned look, that woman and Sir Richard, who, in essence was her boss. Marianne remembered thinking: _it's none of my business. _

Marianne did her job and did it well. This is what Marianne remembered: her pride in handing over her first paycheck to her parents. She had not known then what it cost them to take it, to need it. Years went by and she was promoted and promoted again. She was happy, quick, clever–and loved.

Then, one day, there had been a buzzing around the office to watch out for _the boss_, that his engagement (such a long one to begin with!) was over. A month later, she was sent into his office to give him some papers. He did not know her name, and she did not expect him to. In fact, it was the first time she had been in his office. Still, he muttered a _thank you _while staring at his newspapers. Until suddenly, he looked up at her face, staring openly in a way that made Marianne nervous, the way any handsome man's eye made her nervous, and she scurried out of his office as quickly as possible.

The next day she found white roses in a drawer of her desk. The day after, she found the same. For a week, she held her breath each morning as she opened the drawer and found more white roses. There was never a note. Yet, she always knew who they were from; she found it inappropriate and flattering at the same time.

One day, after a week of this, she was walking to hand some papers off to someone when Sir Richard came up beside her, walking in step with her. And out of the corner of his mouth, he said her name: _Marianne_. She wanted to stop, to turn and look at him frankly, to examine his face and intentions, six weeks after his broken engagement. But she knew that would create gossip. So she said nothing at all, which led him to say: _Have dinner with me_.

Marianne paused to hiss at him: _Stop sending me those roses. They're too nice. I'm not posh. I'm not what you think I am. _And of course, something had gone unsaid as well between the two of them: _I am not like your Lady Mary. You've got the wrong woman._

The next week, carnations found their way into her desk. This time there was a note–_Are these too posh? They were the least expensive I could find. _And by the end of the week of carnations, his note read: _Expect me at your home at six o'clock this evening._

He came. Her family felt equal parts embarrassed and flattered that Sir Richard was in their overcrowded home. He told Mr. Evans exactly what restaurant they were going to and that his chauffeur would be driving, which was a very nice way of saying he and Marianne would never be alone. _I respect your daughter a great deal, _Richard said to her father.

Marianne only thought, even as they stepped out the door together, _How can you respect someone you don't even know?_

* * *

><p>"And you fell in love," Mary said. It<em> was <em>like a story, hearing it. She could imagine it perfectly. In a way, it had happened to her. What was so different from Sir Richard telling Mr. Evans _I respect your daughter a great deal _and Sir Richard telling Mary _I think very highly of you_?

"Yes," Marianne replied simply. "I didn't want to. I tried not to. But he was charming and I was...flattered." Her hands did not pull at her dress, worrying the fabric. She sat very straight and still.

It was the stillness that convinced Mary. Convinced Mary of _what_, she could not say–not until Marianne went on.

* * *

><p>Marianne insisted that no one at the office know, especially since she didn't know exactly what was going on. But of course everyone did.<p>

He bought her expensive gifts that she constantly returned to him: perfume, jewelry, she gave it all back. But then he found Uncle Joe a job, just passing out mail, and her uncle's pride and smile was something Marianne could not return to Richard-nor did she want to. And then without her knowledge–during the work day!–he brought a doctor to her home to look at her mother's hands and later encouraged her father to see the same doctor about his back–and paid for it all, without a word. And these were things Marianne could not return either. Nor did she want to. Sometimes he said things like, _I was so unhappy until I met you. _But it was difficult for Marianne to put too much stock in such things. Uncle Joe's job, the medicine for her mother's hands, the shots that helped her father's back–those were the things Marianne _could_ put stock in.

One night, sitting in the back seat as the chauffeur drove, he said:_ I want to marry you. _

She leaned away from him. _Why? _she asked.

_Because I love you, _he said.

That night she left him quickly, tearfully explaining, _I don't know if I can be what you want. _

Another night, he began again.

_We don't even know one another, _she told him.

_Of course we do, _he replied, _your Uncle Joe calls me Richie and your mother bakes my favorite cookies. _

She felt cornered and flattered and lovely all at once and so she was reaching when she said: _I know you're ashamed of me. You've never even taken me to your house or to meet any of your friends. _

He laughed at her. Laughed! _Do you really think I would take you to my home if white roses kept you from having dinner with me? I'm not ashamed of you! I want you to love me–whatever that means, carnations or roses, your parents' home or mine. _

She whispered the next part, the secret she kept: _I do. I do love you. _When he pulled the ring out of his pocket, it was a simple diamond–more than a carnation but not quite a rose–one she felt she could accept with some amount of dignity.

Their engagement was chaste. He kissed her–on her cheeks, her nose, yes, her lips. But those were the types of kisses that were barely kisses at all, kisses that only made her want him more. Within a year of her knowing him, _really_ knowing, they were married.

The wedding was beautiful (simple for Sir Richard but more than her family had ever hoped for). They honeymooned in Greece. She had lain on his naked chest, her cheek to his beating heart as he read his newspapers. She had not found out until they returned to London that he had bought her family a house, a modest home, in a better area, one they could accept, and moved them in-and that he expected them (Sir Richard Carlisle and Lady Carlisle) to stay in London for a time, before moving to Haxby Park, in Yorkshire. He had assured her they would split their time. It was the first time she felt lied to. And she told him so.

_You mean to leave me there, then? Away from my family? While you're in London with your papers?_

He slapped her.

It was not the slap one might give a child on the back of her hand but the slap of a man putting his full force behind it, enough to knock her off her feet, even as she held her hand to her burning, already-swelling face. She did not know what to say or do. She did not have experience when it came to this–in her own family or with her previously kind and loving husband. So she kept her eyes on the floor, until he left and got ready for bed as if everything were normal.

He made love to her that night as tenderly as he ever had. He gave her words previously unsaid–_I am so very sorry. I don't know what came over me. I just love you so much. I do. I love you, Marianne. And to think that you thought I would do something behind your back or without your best interests at heart...well, it hurt me. I wasn't thinking. It brought back memories, bad memories. But I was wrong and I am sorry. I don't know what came over me. And I love you. I don't say it enough. I'm not good at it. But I do, I do love you._

When they finished, he curled his naked body to hers and for the first time he spoke of _Lady Mary. _He never said anything directly awful about her. But he made it clear that she had often made him feel as if he was not good enough or kind enough or loving enough or just _enough_. He said: _I should have known Mary and I would never marry. She was always too good for me. I suppose you questioning me reminded me of that feeling, of that old war wound. _He laughed a little at his own stupid joke. _We won't go to Yorkshire for awhile, not until you're ready. You and I, we're perfect for one another. We were made for one another. _

And yet, Marianne, who had been told since she was a child that she was a smart girl, a clever girl, knew that whether he meant to or not, he was also saying: _This time I am the one who is too good for you. _She gave him the benefit of the doubt–he must not have meant it like that–because she loved him, because they were curled naked with one another, because of what he had done for her family.

She had not known then that she had already amassed a debt she could never repay.

* * *

><p>"It sounds," Mary began slowly, "as if you consider <em>that<em> your a mistake, that you blame yourself for that one moment of giving him the benefit of the doubt."

Marianne looked at her. It was hard for Mary to look back at Marianne, her twin with the blackened eye.

"Yes," she said simply, shrugging her shoulders. "I wish I could blame myself for falling in love with him in the first place, but I don't see how I could have avoided that, not when he was taking me to nice places and then coming home to play Uncle Joe at cards. I don't know if he really was that man or if he made himself into that man for me, but I don't see how I could have resisted that."

"I understand," Mary agreed.

"But that one moment..." Marianne continued. "That was different. I _was _smart. I _was _quick. I should have known better. The first slap should have been enough."

Very brusquely, Mary asked, "And if it had been enough? What would you have done? Especially when you have already stated that Sir Richard does not let go very easily?"

"You're right." Marianne smiled slightly and Mary noticed a split lip as well. How could she have missed that? "But still. It should have been enough."

"I know." For the first time, Mary reached out a hand and touched Marianne, her twin with the blackened eye and the split lip, the woman who was carrying a child that shared something (although she would never admit it, not aloud to anyone, even herself) with her own daughter. "I know what it's like to look back and think: _that was the moment it should have been enough._" For Mary, it had been when he had pressed her against a column, threatening her against crossing him, then kissing her lightly, almost too lightly. "But hindsight is an impossible thing to judge yourself by."

Marianne's eyes turned stormy. "That's a lovely speech, Lady Mary. And we both know you're right in theory. But it's hard for me to believe it's possible when you're still judging _yourself._"

For the first time, Mary saw the smart, the quick girl Marianne had been. "Go on," she ordered, removing her hand from the other woman's. "Finish it."

* * *

><p>When they arrived in Yorkshire the first time, it was as if a box opened in Richard and he started to tell Marianne things about Lady Mary. Some of it was flattering; other parts were not. But it was the tone of voice that bothered Marianne–the wistfulness, the youth, the desire. But then she would tell herself that she was wrong. How could he still desire Lady Mary? This man who had found Uncle Joe a job? This man who had made her father a foreman so he did not have to climb up and down ladders everyday? This man who managed to give bits of money to her mother without hurting her pride so she could rest her hands? This man who had known that carnations were right and roses were wrong? He was the only man she'd ever more than kissed, the only man she'd ever loved. How could that man desire Lady Mary?<p>

Running Haxby proved difficult for Marianne, if not impossible. She did not have experience. She might have been quick and clever but at the same time, she found it hard to order people to do things–especially things she could do herself–when they were more her peers than her own husband. The comparisons to Lady Mary began then, pouring out of Richard's mouth, how Lady Mary would have been able to do it all, how Marianne was a poor imitation, which should have made Marianne hate Lady Mary. Instead, they made her realize that Richard was right: she was a poor imitation. She sought Mary out, hoping she could learn to be like her.

But what had been a single slap in London turned into recurring events, recurring slaps, and then even worse beatings in Yorkshire. In Yorkshire, he put less and less effort into his apologies, into his declarations of love–all while trying to find ways to see Lady Mary.

This last time, when she went to London to tell him of the baby she'd convinced herself would bring back the man who gave her carnations, she walked into his office without an appointment. She was so excited. He dismissed her, cruelly. And later, he gave her that black eye. He did not even try to apologize. He did not say he loved her. She left London without telling him about the pregnancy, her hair done just so, her hat tilted, hiding the evidence and her own shame.

* * *

><p>"So, now you know. You know it all," Marianne concluded. "I doubt very much you'll share your story with me."<p>

"You're correct," Mary replied. "I can't."

"That's fine." Marianne smoothed her skirt. "I didn't come to your home to hear your story. I came to you for the help you said you would get me once I wanted it. I want it. I want it for me and I want it for my child. Will you help us?"

* * *

><p>Mary walked home in a sort of blindness, arriving at the door of Crawley House, of her home, of <em>their <em>home, a bit confused as to how she had found her way there. Still, she opened the door with cold hands and stepped into the warmth. Even as she took off her coat and hung it up, sliding inside noiselessly, she could hear Gracie's giggles and her father's own robust laugh–the one so rarely heard, not his guffaw for guests at the dinner table, but the sound he let out when truly amused.

When she turned the corner she found the two of them (how odd and perfect a pairing they were–her daughter and her father) sitting around the table. In one of the actual chairs sat Baby, as if the dog were a real person, polite and regal, ready for dinner. Her only canine behavior occurred when her father or Gracie slid a biscuit (not a dog biscuit, a biscuit for tea) towards Baby. Then, the dog's brown eyes would flicker between Gracie and Robert, her mistress and master, waiting for permission before she leaned down and gobbled the biscuit up, leaving very little drool on the table (she was, apparently, very ladylike).

"What's this?" Mary asked.

Her father stood so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair. "We were only having a bit of fun," he explained sheepishly.

"Why is _that dog_ sitting at our table?" she asked him. She raised her eyebrow. But her tone gave her away and even Gracie knew it.

Gracie tugged on her grandfather's hand as if she could protect him. "Manners for Baby," Gracie explained seriously.

Mary stared at Baby until the dog lowered her eyes and hopped off the chair. Then Mary walked to Gracie and pressed her cheek to the little girl's. "Brrrr, cold," Grace complained, trying to wiggle away, but when Mary asked for a kiss, Gracie sweetly pursed her lips. Mary ran a hand down her daughter's hair. Mary had needed to see her. After hearing, after listening...she had needed to see her daughter, the baby who had once been placed on her breast, new and a bit scary, just the two of them, alone in the world. The baby who had grown up to be the sweetheart who had fallen in love with Matthew, to this two year old something that belonged to both of them equally. She wanted to trace her features–the eyebrows they shared, the lips with the bow in the middle, the smile and the singular dimple. She wanted to tell Gracie _you are everything good and perfect in our world_, but she could not say that in a way that Gracie would understand. She could only stroke her daughter's hair and marvel that something so perfect belonged to her and Matthew.

"Is everything all right?" Robert asked Mary.

"Yes," she replied, pressing her lips together. "Only...Only I have to go see Matthew about something at his office, and I wonder if I could ask you to look after Gracie."

"Of course." Robert grinned at Gracie. "We will have great fun, won't we, Gracie? Won't we, Baby?"

"If this _fun_ involves a dog eating at my spot at the table, I don't want to know about it." Mary rolled her eyes.

"Then we won't tell you," her father replied while Gracie overexaggerated the _shhhhh_ noise. "But please, Mary–won't you walk up to the Abbey and have the chauffeur drive you? It's a bit of a ways and with this cold...and your condition..."

"Yes, I will," she told him, kissing the top of Gracie's head once more and then also her father's, making him blush. "That's very nice of you to offer."

It was only once she was in the car, her cold hands gloved and in her pockets, that she realized she had no idea what she was going to say to Matthew. And yet, she knew exactly what _he_ would say to _her_. He would be angry that he hadn't been told of these conversations sooner. Wouldn't anyone? But how could she explain that something much more important had always overshadowed them and they had slipped her mind?

* * *

><p>At first, Matthew had been so pleased to see her that it had made her feel guilty. "Well, this is a lovely surprise," he had exclaimed, standing up and walking around her desk, to rub her arms, to warm them, taking her into his embrace once the door had been discreetly closed behind them. "Hello, Mary," he had murmured in such a normal way.<p>

It had been the way he'd said it, as a husband would say to a wife while no crises unraveled, that made her regret her news and her favor all the more. It had probably been the first time in months that he'd been able to use to that tone, that tilt of his head, that smile, that _hello, Mary. _She loved him for it and hated herself for what she was about to do at the same time. In the end, unfortunately, she had known her husband well and had perfectly predicted his response to her news and the favor she asked of him.

"_That _slipped your mind?" he asked, stepping back from her and sitting on the edge of his desk. "Speaking to _that woman_ slipped your mind?"

"She isn't _that woman_, Matthew," Mary could not help but defend Marianne, not after today, not after her story (after hearing Mary's own story through someone else's mouth) or that hideous purple eye. With a great deal of patience, she continued, "Her name is Marianne."

"No, Mary. You are _very _wrong." He shook his head in utter disbelief at his wife. She could see that he did not understand–the situation or in that moment, Mary herself. "She is _that woman_. Because she is married to _that man_. God, how could you be so _blind_?"

Mary sucked in a breath. It felt like a minor slap on the back of her hand, as if he were calling her stupid. "You don't understand," she tried to relay calmly. "I..."

"No, I_ do_ understand," he interrupted, not unkindly but in a resigned way. "You have this _thing, _Mary, with rescuing–"

"What _thing_?" Mary asked.

"...with rescuing women from whatever their situation might be," he continued as if he had not heard the offense in her tone. "I've read about it in your letters...you wanting to help a woman whose husband takes her by the arm too harshly. It was one thing when I saw you try to rescue Gretchen from...me, I suppose. That didn't hurt anyone. It was another when I saw you try it with Edith, to rescue her from her own grief. That involved Gracie. But I understood that; she is family. But this..."

"What?" she asked, turning her back on him to look out the small window his office afforded. "Just say it."

"This time you are risking not only yourself–which I cannot allow–but also our daughter. How could you even consider such a thing?" He didn't mean to sound self-righteous, but the shock of hearing that his wife had spoken multiple times to Carlisle's wife angered him, and now that she wanted to involve herself in Carlisle's domestic matters...He could not understand her in this. Or even how she could so readily believe this woman. He could not meet her in the middle. Her back was ramrod straight and she was very still when he said with a great a deal of finality: "I forbid it."

She turned slowly, as if her ears deceived her. "You _forbid_ it?"

"Yes," he sat back behind his desk. "You heard me."

"What does that mean exactly, Matthew? You _forbidding_ me from doing something?" she asked in the calm voice she used before she unleashed her fury. "Will you tie me down? To keep from helping a battered, pregnant woman out of her marriage? Will you divorce me? If I help her? What exactly are you _forbidding _me to do?"

His voice shook with suppressed rage. That they even had to fight about this seemed ludicrous to him. Couldn't she see how crazy this was? "I would hope that I wouldn't have to forbid you from becoming involved with the domestic matters of _that, that man _who–"

She held up her hand. "Please. _Don't. _I know exactly what he's done to me and also to her. Matthew..." She paused, removed her coat from the peg, and put it back on. "You must think I am the worst kind of idiot. Silly me, my _rescue issue _rearing its ugly head again. How tiresome it must be to be married to me." He started to speak but she whirled at him, taking steps towards his desk and poking him in the chest. "Did you ever _once_ think...for one moment...Mr. _Solicitor_, my husband who _forbids me, _that if we were to help her, _legally_ help her, he would be put in prison and our problems would be _solved_?" She poked him again. "Of course not! Why would such a _logical_ solution, that helped _everyone_, even _that woman _who married him, _that woman _I almost became, occur to you–the _caveman_–who wanted to have a pistol match with _that _man in order to solve the problem?"

Matthew sat as Mary buttoned up her coat over her belly. She sighed. She didn't want to be the wife who came into her husband's place of business and poked him. "Matthew, I didn't come here to fight. I know I made a mistake in not telling you of the individual encounters. You will have to trust me when I say I never meant to...I never meant to keep them from you in any way. Something bigger just always came up. But I am sorry, sorry to bring this all to you like this, for being dramatic. A woman, a pregnant woman, with a purple, blackened eye asking me for help makes me feel dramatic. I can't turn away from that. No matter whom she is married to. And I don't think you can either." She reached for his hand and he allowed her to hold it. "I know the man I love cannot turn away from that." She paused. "I thought talking at the office would make it seem more official but that seems to have been a mistake. I'll see you when you come home. And Matthew, I love you. I love Gracie. I love this baby. More than anything. More than myself. But her _eye_, Matthew..."

After she left, Matthew put his head in his hands and sighed as deeply and as wearily as a man could sigh.

* * *

><p>Even with Isobel at dinner, it felt strange not to have Matthew there as well. Of course, it wasn't as if they'd been tied at the hip since April, but something about tonight made Mary nostalgic about those quiet nights in the apartment when it was only Gracie and Mama, and maybe Mrs. Larsen if they could convince her to stay. It wasn't as if she wanted those days back. Like Matthew, she would do anything, give anything to have shared all of that with him. But Mary did realize that even as other relatives had gotten to know Gracie (which she was supremely grateful for, of course) they hadn't spent as much time alone–just Mama and Gracie–and that was important, especially with the baby coming.<p>

"I won't be home for dinner," Matthew had told her when he rang earlier. His voice had been quiet but not angry.

"I'm sorry, Matthew," she had acknowledged. "I must have set you behind, or distracted you. But I hope it's only that and you aren't trying to avoid me–"

"No," he'd insisted. "We promised we wouldn't do that anymore. Really, it's just that I don't have as much experience in domestic law and there are quite a few differences than industrial law."

She'd smiled. _She loved this man. Oh, she loved him. _

"I'm sure there are. Still," she had paused. "I am sorry. I know I could have handled that whole thing better."

"I'm sure I could have handled it better myself." She'd heard the smile in his voice. "I'm sorry, too. I won't be home too late. I love you, Mary." Warmth had filled her with those words.

Now, as Molesley cleared the dishes away, Mary asked Gracie, "Darling, would you like to take a bath with Mama?"

"Mama?" Gracie asked with hope in her voice. Then she looked down at her mother's stomach. "Too big?" she asked.

"No," Mary laughed (as did Isobel). It would be written in the family's figurative history books that Gracie's first sentence had been _Mama is big; Mama is so, so, so, so big. _"Mama can fit."

"And baby?" Gracie clarified.

"This baby," Mary rubbed her belly. "Not that one. But she can come into the bathroom with us if you want."

"I want," Gracie said with such ease it made Mary smile.

"And do you want bubbles?" Mary asked.

"Oh, Gracie," Isobel began excitedly. "I have some very special bubbles. They smell so delicious and they are pink."

"I want," Gracie repeated.

Mary tried not to smile. "Gracie, you have to ask Gran politely. Remember how we talked about manners?"

"Please," Gracie turned towards Gran Iz. "I want."

"Close enough." Mary rolled her eyes, chuckling.

* * *

><p>Matthew had been right; he wasn't <em>that <em>late. When he came in the door and Molesley took his coat and scarf, as well as his briefcase, he found his mother in the sitting room. She looked up from her book on public health in developing countries and set it aside to give him a hug. "You are a good father and husband," she told him without preamble. "You have a good wife, a good mother to your children. And a lovely daughter. Sometimes I am so proud of you, so happy for you, I could burst into tears."

The thought of his stalwart mother bursting into tears was more alarming than her random display of affection. He took her hands and stepped back. "What's all this?"

"You looked like you needed it, for one," she said, back to no-nonsense Isobel Crawley. "And secondly, I really feel like the luckiest grandmother in the world, that I get to see Gracie everyday, that I get to watch her grow up, that I get to watch you and Mary..."

"Fumble through it all?" he asked, amused.

"Maybe, yes," she considered. "But really, watching Mary mother, and watching Mary learn to be a wife...I have tremendous respect for her and a great deal of love. I consider her a daughter." She laughed. "We've gone off topic. And of course, you can't repeat that because you know it will only embarrass her."

"Where is she?" he asked suddenly. "Where is Gracie?"

"They're having a bubble bath," Isobel explained.

He found the two girls in a bath filled to the brim with bubbles. Mary was just placing a tiara of bubbles on Gracie's head. His wife already wore a beard of bubbles and Gracie was giggling, snuggled up next to her mama. Baby was curled up in the corner, watching the antics with her canine grin.

"Well, what's this?" Matthew asked. He was tired but that didn't mean there wasn't happiness in his voice. It seemed a wonderful thing to come home to, even considering he'd missed dinner, his two girls giggling in bubbles.

Gracie turned to look at him. "Papa!" She giggled some more and placed some bubbles in her hand before blowing them at him. "Papa, too!"

Matthew sat near Baby and scratched her ears. "Darling, I don't think I would fit."

"Oh," she replied. "Mama's belly is so, so, so big."

Mary rolled her eyes but Matthew met Gracie's eyes levelly. "Mama's belly is big because she is growing you a brother or sister. Isn't that exciting?"

"Yes," Gracie told him, obviously lying. "But...But..." she struggled to express herself.

"But if I didn't have this belly then Papa could fit with us?" Mary asked, and Gracie nodded solemnly. "I know, but isn't this nice? Just the two of us?"

Gracie shook her head. "No, baby too."

Mary glanced at Matthew, realizing what their daughter was bravely trying to articulate, that things had already changed and this was not just a mother, daughter bath, but her future sibling was already quite literally in the mix. Matthew and Mary shared a look of concern before Mary took her daughter's cheeks in her hands. "Gracie, you can tell Mama and Papa. Are you...upset about having a brother or a sister?"

Gracie looked up into her mother's face. Mama was the most beautiful woman she ever had seen. She was also so kind and gentle and funny. "No," she whispered, unable to meet her mother's gaze.

"What's wrong then, Gracie girl?"

Gracie's vocabulary had been growing by leaps and bounds. Yet, she was still a two year old trying to express complicated feelings. "With baby...you and me and papa...the same?"

"The same, what?" Mary asked, wrapping her arms around the little girl.

"Love," Gracie murmured.

Mary met Matthew's eyes over their daughter's head. He came nearer to them, as close as he could be without being in the bath. Gracie was avoiding her parents' eyes by drawing designs on Mary's wet shoulder. "You know that Mama and I love you very much. Don't you?" he asked her softly. She nodded. "Everyday, every single day, we think we couldn't love you more than we already do and then we do. Nothing could happen to make us ever love you any less."

"Nothing will change that," Mary whispered into Gracie's hair. "_Ever_."

"But...But..." Gracie's lower lip trembled. "Boy," she wailed even as both her parents began to soothe her. "Br-Brother!"

"Gracie," Matthew said a bit sternly so she would know he was serious; that he meant what he said. "It doesn't matter if a girl is in Mama's belly or a boy is in Mama's belly...you will always be our first baby and we will love you. The same. No matter what."

"But..." Gracie hiccuped. "She..."

"Who?" Mary asked, pouncing as Gracie continued to struggle to express herself. "Who said?"

She didn't have a name for her yet. Not really. They had been playing in the nursery which was very fun and then all of a sudden the woman everyone else called her grandmama had taken Gracie in her arms as if she were a baby (which she was _not_) and told her that even if her mama had a boy (she'd also used a funny word–_heir_) Grandmama Cora would still love her no matter what even if no one else did. "Geemama," Gracie revealed at last.

"Geemama was _wrong,_" Mary said fiercely, holding back tears. "You are _ours. _We will love you forever. Nothing and no one can change that."

"Gracie, darling," Matthew added, wiping her tears with the back of his thumbs. "We are your mama and papa and we love you. And we know that you'll be a wonderful big sister. And we'll still love you. You'll always be our Gracie Girl."

Gracie knuckled away her tears. Mama did not lie. Papa did not lie. She could believe them. She could.

* * *

><p>Matthew put Gracie to bed that night with extra rocking and extra kisses. When he entered their bedroom, Mary was pacing in her nightgown. "I'm going to scratch her eyes out, Matthew," Mary said with relish. "And if you think you can even try to stop me..."<p>

"Come here," he told her and pulled her into his arms, but she untangled herself.

"I don't want to be held right now. I don't want to be told everything will be all right. When was Gracie alone with my mother? Weeks ago. So, Gracie has been feeling like this for _weeks_? And why? Because of my mother's neuroses. This is exactly what I was worried about. We can't trust her."

"Mary, you have to calm down."

"I can't," she hissed at him, because she would not dare yell and wake Gracie. "I can't calm down, thinking of Gracie upset for weeks, thinking, worrying that if I had a boy we wouldn't love her. God, Matthew..."

"I know," he murmured in what he hoped was a calming way. "I know. But Mary, please, sit down. Your face is as red as a tomato...Just sit and breathe."

"Do you know that these feelings she's been having...However simplified they are since she is two, they are _exactly_ what I promised myself she would never feel. You and I talked about it. We never wanted her to feel _less_." She sat on the edge of her side of the bed because the more she paced, the more panicked he looked. "What do I do with this? With _her_?"

"I'm sure," Matthew began as he moved to sit next to her and put his arm around her, "you meant to say, what do _we _do with this? What do _we _do with her?" Mary smiled a little and leaned into him. "Right now, I think we go to bed. And tomorrow, when your father comes over, I think you ought to tell him. Let him deal with his own mess."

"I want to understand her...But I just can't...How could she _say _that to Gracie?"

"I think we should go to sleep," Matthew began before she stood quickly and hissed out his name. "I think trying to understand Cora is a question for another day."

"I cannot sleep right now!"

"Why don't you lie down and try?" he asked as patiently as he could.

"Don't patronize me. I am not a child," she retorted, lifting her chin.

"But you're _carrying_ one, so lie down," he said, adding, "Please."

She flung herself onto the bed–as much as a pregnant woman of six and a half months could fling herself. Matthew changed and turned off the lights while she muttered what she was going to say and do to her mother. He hadn't lied. He was just as angry at Cora. But he was walking a shaky line, trying to keep his wife calm while his own fury seemed to thicken beneath his skin. By the time he made it to bed, she was rubbing soothing circles on her belly and was mostly silent. "Whenever I am angry at your mother," Matthew began softly, pressing a kiss to his wife's shoulder, "I try to remember all the other people who adore Gracie. It doesn't make it okay. But it reminds me that coming home was the right thing for her. Seeing her with Robert...it reminds me that people can change. And something hopeless can become extraordinary."

"You're right," she murmured, unwilling soothed."But I won't let her alone with our daughter again, Matthew. Not unless something drastically changes. I can't."

"I agree," Matthew replied. "I do think you should tell your papa. He needs to understand the full scope of the problem."

Mary sighed. "When do you think it will happen?"

"When what will happen?" Matthew asked.

"When life will just calm down and we won't have to worry about my mother...or black eyes...or any of it..."

He could only stroke her hair silently. There was no other answer to give. And they both tried to ignore the feeling that all of these little inconveniences, these little stressors, could not go on forever, but would have to implode in order to end.

* * *

><p>Three days later, Mary received a telegram from Marianne. She knew what it would say before she opened it, so she waited for a few moments, holding the telegram in her hand. She thought of Matthew, how she'd begged him to help Marianne, how they'd argued, and how he'd been poring over domestic law books late into the night since she had implored him to help on Marianne's behalf.<p>

Mary closed her eyes. It had hurt to tell her father about her mother. It had hurt to see the look of bewilderment in his eyes, and ultimately the betrayal. He'd gone so quiet and said only that he would handle it and that he was sorry, and when he had said goodbye to Gracie that morning, he had held her so tightly and with so much anguish on his face, Mary's heart had ached. It had been hard not to hate Cora even more for hurting her father.

And yet, this unread telegram hurt, perhaps even more. Because Mary had risked such a great deal for Marianne and now Marianne was sending her a telegram and Mary knew what it would say.

_I've changed my mind. I am sorry for involving you. I can't leave him. He loves me. He's changed. You don't understand. I love him. I'm pregnant with his child. _

Of course it wouldn't say all of that exactly. It would be shorter: twenty-five words or less. There would be _stops _in between. But that's what it would say. She waited another moment, feeling her own child move within her.

Finally, she she opened it.

_UNCLE JOE SICK STOP IN LONDON WITH RICHARD STOP TOLD HIM ABOUT BABY STOP I'M SORRY STOP I CAN'T STOP MARIANNE _

Mary crumpled it into a ball. _No, you can't, _she thought of Marianne. _You can't stop, can you? He'll kill you and that baby before you learn how to stop. _

Mary wept.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I feel as if I am thisclose to the finish line but out of energy. Please, I would love a review. I know you're out there. I know how many of you have alerted this story and read it but I would love to know your thoughts, worries, concerns, critiques. It's almost done, truly. It's now or never and personally I would hate for it to be never. _


	51. Chapter 51

_A/N: I am so SORRY for how late this chapter is in coming. Literally, a major transition is going on in my life, unforeseen, unexpected, and totally crazy. It's good. It's not bad. But it has involved moving across the country in a short amount of time and on a wing and a prayer and a great deal of risk. Meanwhile, the faithful beta, Faeyero, has been super ill. Basically, I really wish I could have done something to get this to you sooner but I literally could not. I hope you take solace in the fact that there is a little bit of something here for everyone, it is a long chapter, and hopefully, the next chapter comes more swiftly (although I cannot promise since, like I said, huge transition...I will do my very best). ***I know I still have people to respond to...I will, tomorrow...You are all the best. _

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><p>Chapter Fifty One<p>

When Cora was pregnant with Mary, there had been no talk centered around the need for an heir. Well...there had been _some_: Robert and his mother conferring over tea in whispers, their conversation abruptly halting when Cora entered the room; overhearing the servants' gossip now and again. But that had been easily ignored when Cora considered that she was about to be a mother, to a child–girl or boy. When the doctor had announced _it's a girl _and Cora had held Mary in her arms, she'd felt only gratitude and an overwhelming love as she looked into the red, angry face of her crying daughter, the blinking brown eyes. Mary had been so angry at coming into the world, as if she deserved a better entrance, she had made Cora laugh through her tears. When Robert had come in, he had been jolly, holding the baby, bouncing her a bit too much for Cora's liking. _What shall we call her? _he'd asked once he'd been assured that mother and daughter were healthy and well.

What had been said in whispers during her first pregnancy had been muttered outright during her second._We need a boy_, Robert's mother had said plainly, _there is no way around it. _But even then, Cora had not allowed it to bother her too much. Her pregnancies had been close together; clearly, she and Robert did not have a problem becoming pregnant. A boy would come at some point; that had just seemed natural. When the doctor again announced _it's a girl _and Cora had held Edith in her arms, she'd loved her just as much as she did Mary but she worried, too–not that there would never be a boy (not at that point anyway), but at what Robert's reaction would be and, most especially, what his mother's reaction would be. Robert had entered the room with trepidation, smile plastered on his face. Cora had known that smile well since it was the grin he had worn the entire time he courted her and throughout the first year of their marriage, before he loved her. _Look at that blond hair, _he'd joked on seeing Edith for the first time. But his jolliness had been put on and Cora knew it. Robert's mother's reaction was only: _Hmph. Really. Blonde._

During Cora's third pregnancy, the word _heir _haunted her day and night. Again, this was another pregnancy close to the others so there had not been a question of fertility. But it had seemed to her that if she should produce a third girl, it would prove that she could _only_ produce girls. Sometimes as she had glided through the halls of Downton Abbey-as gracefully as a pregnant woman could glide–she had felt as if she were in a fairy tale and a third girl would prove an awful curse true.

Though not an overly religious person, she prayed nightly that this third baby would be a boy. Robert's mother had not said anything, only eyed her with contempt. Robert had been cautiously optimistic, but Cora had been able to sense his fear anytime he glanced at her belly. When the doctor, without any enthusiasm, had informed Cora _it's a girl _and she held Sybil for the first time, Cora had wept. Not just for herself but for all of her children, her girl babies, who seemed so worthless now to everyone but her. She'd wept for all the prayers she'd prayed during the night, asking for a boy, which now, holding Sybil with her teal eyes and blinking lashes, felt like betrayals to the tiny baby, as well as her other girls. She had never told anyone that, not even Robert. It had not been as if she had not loved Sybil immediately, just like the others, but she had already begun to prepare herself for Robert's reaction and of course, his mother's. _Another girl, _he'd said with a false sense of enthusiasm, _she looks quite like Mary. _

Later, when the baby nurse had taken Sybil, Robert had taken Cora's hand and kissed it. _I love you, _he'd said genuinely, _and we can try again. Not to worry, not to worry. Don't let Mama bother you. _

But Robert had been wrong. It had appeared as if her womb had closed, the fairy tale's curse proven true. His mother _did_ bother her, constantly, about a lack of an heir, and one day, Cora realized she had a choice: she could continue to listen to her mother-in-law when it came to her own fertility and lack thereof (which she could do nothing about, really) or she could show the Dowager Countess that, despite having three girls and no boys, _Robert's American Wife _could be an adequate countess and hostess.

Cora had not seen, at least then, that by choosing the second option, she–their mother, the last of the guard willing to stand for them, to love and to nurture them as they deserved–was deserting the three Crawley girls to a life of baby nurses, nannies, and governesses.

She had not _seen_.

Now, when Robert talked as if it wouldn't matter if Mary's child was a boy, as if he would love Gracie the same as–if not _more_ than–that boy-child, Cora wanted to laugh at him and sometimes she did. Mary was seven months pregnant and the closer it came to Mary's time, the more Cora wanted to hold her belly and giggle until she did not have breath anymore.

For years-for a lifetime-Robert and his mother had made Cora feel like less because she could not produce an heir until she had bought into it herself, until with this last pregnancy, she and Robert had lain awake at night and had conversations which one of them would begin: _You know, it could be a boy _and the other would add, _Yes, wouldn't that be something? _and back and forth like that until they fell asleep. When she'd fallen getting out of the tub, she'd known she had gotten the fairy tale curse wrong.

She _could _make boys; she just could not _keep _them.

She remembered it all with such perfect clarity now even as she and Robert fought (wasn't that all they did anymore?) and he shouted at her about Gracie, "I _have_ changed. I love that child more than you can imagine!"

She yelled back, "Do you remembering calling James when Sybil was about five and Mary about nine? And having him come down here with his son? Do you remember how despondent you were? How cankerous? Probably not. _But I do_." She paused for breath and only raised her voice more. The Earl and the Countess had spent Lady Mary's entire sixth month of pregnancy arguing. These words were nothing new. "And do you remember Mary crying, asking who was this Cousin Patrick, and explaining to her that he would end up inheriting her home? And do you remember when she asked _but why Mama, when it's my home_? And I had to tell her that it was because she was a girl. A nine year old. Do you remember? No, because it was _me_ telling her, me holding her as she cried!" She grimaced, and lowered her voice so that it was deep and throaty. "And were you there when she left dinner early, complaining of a headache because she couldn't bear to hear you speak of _Matthew Crawley, _the _son _you always wantedall your bloody life? Did you hear her sob and say _Papa won't fight for me_?_"_

Robert bit the inside of his cheek. His voice was very calm. "Cora..."

"No, _you_ don't remember-but _I_ do, and if Mary has forgotten then I feel sorry for her, sorry that she believes that her granny and her father don't give a fig if she ever provides an heir or not, because I have a _long _memory, Robert," she threatened. "And I remember everything _both _you and your mother have said to me on the topic."

Robert held up a hand. "Cora," he repeated.

"No, I won't stop. So I said what I said to Gracie. I was just being honest, wasn't I? So Mary won't have a nine year old Gracie coming up to her, asking her why her younger brother gets preferential treatment, if Mary even has a boy. She'll be prepared from the beginning," Cora concluded.

"Listen to yourself," Robert begged. "We've had this fight twenty times in the last month since she turned two and I found out what you said to her. She's _two_. She can't prepare-and the fact is, maybe we have _all_ changed–my mother and me included. Maybe it's different this time."

"I'm the one who handed you three girls and one dead boy, Robert," she said, repeating the line she'd used for the last month of fights. It always made Robert wince. "Nobody knows what that was like except for me. You and your mother were despicable about it."

"We we were wrong!" he roared as he had roared for the last month of fights. "I was raised to think that way and so was she. And I am sorry," he shouted for the millionth time, "I am sorry for how you were treated and how the girls were treated but something has changed. Something happened in this family, in this house, and I cannot...I cannot go on as I once did."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Cora snapped as she did at the end of every single argument they'd had these past weeks.

"Actually, you won't," Robert replied. This was a change in the script. "I'm taking Gracie to Ripon today to buy her some books, a belated birthday present."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Cora replied haughtily.

Robert lifted a bag of luggage from the floor. "And then I am going to be staying at Crawley House."

Cora laughed mockingly. "You can't be serious."

"I am serious," Robert replied calmly.

"For how long?" Cora retorted. "What will people say? What will the servants think?"

"I don't know and I don't care. I'll be around, to help manage the estate," he paused. "But I have found that my dressing room is not far enough away from your venom when I go to sleep at night."

"Well, pick a bedroom, for God's sake, Robert. We only have a house full of them," she responded sarcastically even as she folded her arms uncomfortably at this new development.

"I don't want to be near you right now, at all," Robert stated, not unkindly. "I would like my wife back, the mother of my children back. I do not like be married to this jealous, embittered shrew. I don't recognize her. I don't love her and frankly, I don't even like her. I would like to enjoy our grandchildren with the Cora I know and recognize. That's the woman I promised to grow old with."

She opened her mouth but he went on.

"And I know I helped create this _person _you've become. I know I was beastly to you. I know my mother was more than beastly to you. I am sorry. I am sorry for ever making you or the girls feel less. I was terribly wrong. But I am trying to right a wrong and you are not allowing it and I cannot go on this way.

"Neither one of us protected her, Cora," he whispered, his hand on the doorknob, his voice anguished–and suddenly they were speaking of something altogether different–the root, really.. They had done everything he'd been taught to do and still his daughter and been raped in his own home. "No one did." He shut the door gently on the way out of their bedroom.

* * *

><p>There had been a bit of a snafu when Robert had arrived, bag in hand, and Mary had not known he was coming to stay (Matthew having failed to pass on the message). But besides that, the week since, spent at Crawley House, had been a welcome reprieve from things at the Abbey. Of course, he still had duties there, but Robert liked to think that he was helping Mary as well– playing with Gracie with as much gusto and energy as a man half his age.<p>

Their trip to the bookstore had been a huge success. He had been able to tell by the way she walked and preened and held his hand very daintily that she had felt very special to be on a date with her grandfather. He'd bought her too many books. He knew that, even before he saw the look on Mary's face. Yet, books were weights. They were heavy and expensive to ship. Books were an investment, anchors, and Robert wanted Gracie and her family well tied to Crawley House. It didn't make much sense, particularly when Gracie insisted that he read _Jack and the Beanstalk _to her over and over again, ignoring the other _anchors. Jack, Jack, Jack, _she would chant until he relented.

One night, as if they sensed he wanted to, but was too afraid to take the plunge, Mary and Matthew suggested that Robert put Gracie to bed. He had been terrified the first time. But once he had read Gracie her book (_Jack and the Beanstalk, _of course) and rocked her into a very sleepy state, it had been very easy to put her in the crib, cover her with a blanket, and give her a kiss. He'd turned off the lights and closed the door partway when suddenly he tasted half digested cranberries.

Regret.

He loved Gracie. He loved that she was a second chance. But that was just it. He hadn't done these things the first time around. He hadn't rocked and read Mary to sleep. His hadn't been the last lips to kiss her forehead before he'd turned off the lights. He hadn't even been around at all really–since the children's bedtimes often conflicted with dinner. So he tried to focus on the sweetness of _now_ instead. He knew that was what his girls would want of him.

Whenever he held Gracie or even Maggie, tiny Maggie, he thought constantly: _We will protect you._

One day, a week into his stay, Mary napped while he and Gracie rummaged through Matthew's office for her crayons and papers. Gracie found the crayons and with a triumphant hurrah went to go wake Baby. But as Robert struggled to find plain, unlined paper, something caught his eye. It was the date, really, in Mary's handwriting from her time in New York. He was reading it before he meant to.

_Dear Granny,_

_You asked if I have my figure back and I am happy to say that I do. Furthermore, I surmise by your furtive questioning that you wanted to know if I am taking care of myself along with Gracie. I am. I promise I am eating enough. And I could also surmise that you wanted to ask about the _thing _we have deemed unmentionable and found that you could not break your vow to me._

_I can only tell you this. He gave me Gracie. Brutally and without my permission, yes. But as her teeth begin to fill in and she smiles at me, or smashes peas in her hands until she laughs, I don't think of him at all. _

_I think how undeserving I am to have such an extraordinary daughter. I think that I am lucky. I think that I have been given something. _

_Most of the time, I think that I have been given something._

_Yes, given._

_But, Granny, I have to share this with you because I don't have anyone else to tell. After I "got my figure back," Grandmother bought me an expensive dress. It was gorgeous yet I could not even try it on. _

_It was red. _

_You found me in red and I...find that I cannot wear it. So _that dress _hung in the back of my closet like a secret. I could practically hear it hissing at me–Red is the color of the dress you wore, red is the color of the blood on your arms, the wound on your head, between your legs. Red. Red. Red. _

_I became extremely angry and, without thinking twice. I built a fire and shoved _that _dress, _that _hissing dress, _thatred_ dress into it. _

_You, of all people, the keeper of my secrets, know that I don't like to talk of him. I don't like to think of him or what was done. I don't like to be a victim in any way._

_But he took more than just the thing I did not offer him. He took the color red from me. _

_And Granny, I looked damned good in red. It always was my color._

_I would like to wear red and flaunt it. I would like to be able to say in my head, no, Richard, you did not take this, too. But he did. He took the color red from my wardrobe (I don't think I will ever wear it again) and more. _

_Why is it easier for me to be angry over a stupid color, instead of the whole of it?_

_Red is such a little thing after all._

_But it isn't, not for me._

_Gracie loves ladybugs. Every now and then, we find one in the house and I help her to pick it up delicately (I'm afraid at this age, she does not handle anything with much delicacy) and she holds it in the palm of her hand until we walk to a window and free that little red bug. _

_If only I knew the way too,_

_MJC_

Gracie began to call for him and Robert dropped the letter as if it was on fire. He wished he hadn't read it, but he had. He didn't know how Matthew came to have it and he wouldn't ask. There was only a litany of curses for the man who had taken the color red away from his daughter, whose lawyers claimed he was selling Haxby to the first family who would take it.

When he walked into the room, Gracie, having grown tired of waiting for Papa, had used her crayons on the wall instead. There was a misshapen blob that could have been a flower. Gracie stared up at him with wide eyes, as if she suddenly realized what she had done. Her mouth formed an _oh. _

She dropped the red crayon she was holding.

Robert found himself lifting Gracie up and hugging her as tightly as he could.

He wished he could tell Mary what an incredible woman, what an incredible mother she was, that this child so well loved, so adored, so protected would draw with a red crayon and think nothing of it, because for Gracie, red was just a color and what that said about Mary as a mother made Robert want to weep.

For Gracie, red was just another crayon in the box. Miraculous.

* * *

><p>"He's been here a week," Mary hissed at Matthew. "With no mention of leaving." She was on her side, pillows tucked, supporting her belly as her husband dressed for bed. There was no way for Matthew to tell her how she looked bare footed, hair lavishly splayed across the pillow, full of their child, stroking her own belly.<p>

Smirking, Matthew buttoned his pajamas. "I think perhaps you're just mad that on his watch, Gracie colored on the wall today."

Mary itched her nose and rubbed her belly, trying to soothe the baby who seemed intent on kicking and punching her insides, particularly when she wanted to sleep. "Oh, stop laughing at your own joke. It wasn't even funny."

Matthew bit his lip and raised his eyebrows at her.

"And no," she said slowly, arching one of her eyebrows in return at him. "That wasn't me being cranky because I am pregnant, that was a fact. Just like the red blob drawing on the wallpaper is a fact. Just like the nursery is still unfinished because my father is sleeping there is a fact. Just like..."

"I think I've got it," Matthew replied, slipping beneath the sheets, taking up the duty (the pleasure, really) of rubbing her belly. "We're dealing with facts here. The fact is that your father is taking some stress off of you to entertain Gracie which is, in fact, comforting to me while I am at work."

"The fact is," Mary replied sleepily, her hands on either side of her belly as baby calmed beneath her husband's hands, "that he lives with my mother, down the street, in a huge estate."

Matthew briefly pressed his lips to hers. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that."

"About my father and mother not living together? We are talking about that." Mary told him, smiling into his eyes so intensely blue she could purr just looking at them. "Or did you want to talk about how my mother has become momentarily insane?"

"No," he kissed her again. "This house. What will we do once this baby comes?"

"That's what the nursery is for." She tickled his side because she knew where this was going.

"But what about the one after that?" he whispered into the curve of her neck.

"I thought we agreed to take one child on at a time," Mary reminded him, feeling his breath on her neck. "What I meant by that was, until you see me eight months, nine months pregnant, until you see me in labor...You might not want more after that."

"Well, it isn't that far away when you think about it. Nearly at the eight months mark," he mused and pulled back to look at her. One of his hands left her belly to stroke the hair away from her face, touch her nose and lips. "And the fact is, I think you are more beautiful than ever." Mary wanted to roll her eyes at him she couldn't, not when he was looking at her so earnestly. Everything about her softened. "And I'm not saying anything other than even with this one more, with Mother and with Molesley and Mrs. Byrd...We will be _snug_."

"Oh?" Mary asked, winking at him. His hands went back to rubbing her belly.

"Yes, and then I've been thinking, perhaps we should get a car...with a baby...during winter...We can hardly call up to the big house and expect them to cater to our every whim," Matthew reasoned.

"Why not? Papa expects us to cater his every whim," she whined before crying out. "Ouch!"

"I felt that," Matthew winced. He felt so pathetically useless when she was in pain like this. "That was a big kick."

"I try not to take it personally. It must be cramped in there but–" This time she lost her breath with the force of the baby's kick.

Matthew winced again and rubbed the spot where the baby continued to press and push. Under Matthew's hand, the kicks turned to flutters. "I suppose _snug_ is all relative."

Mary laughed. "Now that," she murmured against his lips, "that was a good joke."

* * *

><p>Matthew woke her only an hour later. "What?" she asked him, her hands holding his wrists, his hands on her face.<p>

"You were crying," he told her as he had told her before, ever since that awful telegram over a month ago. He wiped tears from her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?" he asked.

The dream (it wasn't quite a nightmare) was always the same. Mary would find herself somewhere in Downton Abbey, hearing a baby's cry. But she could never find the source. She looked in every room until only one was left. It took what seemed like hours for dream Mary to work up the courage to open that door but when she did, the crying stopped. There was no baby.

The first night she had dreamt of the crying baby, she'd hastened to Gracie's crib. The little girl slept soundly but Mary had even felt her chest, to see if she breathed. Matthew had tried to calm her down once they'd got back to their bedroom. She'd rocked back and forth. "Something is wrong with our baby," she'd murmured again and again. He'd tried to comfort her to no avail. Even after seeing Doctor George, and his insistence that everything was normal, she'd worried. She had the dream four more times in two weeks, Matthew waking her with tears on her own cheeks before she realized whose baby's cry she was searching for in the dream, whose baby she was crying over.

"For caring. I'm sorry for caring," Mary whispered back into the dark. "It's pointless. She doesn't want my help. She doesn't even want my worry. But in the dream...the baby...he or she is _wailing_. It's not a normal cry...I just..."

Matthew took her in his arms as he always did. He rubbed her back and stroked her hair. He cursed the Carlisles in his head as he always did. He never could quite curse their baby, though. If anyone was innocent in all this, it was that baby.

* * *

><p>Reinforcements were called in.<p>

Violet Crawley had married into the Crawley family. She could remember her own mother, on the day of her wedding, telling her how important she would one day be, how she would be a countess, but Violet had not been listening because, unlike many of her friends, she had the privilege of marrying for love.

Her son had made a different decision. While Violet had not agreed with that choice at the time, she had understood why he'd made it. Moreover, he had been her son–the greatest accomplish a woman could ever achieve (for that had been how she thought, how she'd been trained to think). Of Cora...Violet had been sure that the baby doll voice was affected, her skin flawless, and her mind so americanized it would be hard to function as a Countess. Violet had been right on all counts.

Violet had been tough on Cora just as her own mother-in-law had been tough on Violet. It had not always been pleasant or kind. It had not been that way for Violet when she'd been the young new countess either. Yet in some ways, her mother-in-law had forged her, beat her until steel emerged beneath and she could do the job. It had not gone that way with Cora.

Even Violet had regrets. Watching Molesley pour tea as she and Robert waited in Crawley house–Mary (eight months pregnant and playing blocks!) with Gracie somewhere. Violet regretted her treatment of Cora. She had thought that she could beat the steel into her until a real countess emerged. But people were more like flowers. One could not nurture an orchid the same way one could handle a hearty petunia.

When Molesley left, Violet began. She knew her lines; she'd practiced them in her head since Mary had called, whispering about the whole situation. "Robert," she said smiling. _Oh, her boy, her darling, darling boy. _"You're living here."

Robert lifted his own tea and rolled his eyes at his mother. "I am not living here; I am staying here," he defended.

"Oh, I must have the wrong information," Violet said, clearly knowing she did have the correct information. "I've been told you've been here nearly two weeks."

"By whom?" Robert scowled. "Was it Sybil? She stopped by with the baby yesterday and–"

"I've seen your wife, Robert," Violet interrupted gently.

His tea cup clattered back to the table. "_You _went to see Cora?"

Violet lifted an eyebrow. "I don't know why you have to make a fuss about it. She's family. She lives at the Abbey. I went to see her."

"Did she tell you how we've been fighting, how she hates me and you for all that we've done to her over the years for not birthing an heir–?" It all vomited out of him. He missed Cora. It pained him to be away from her. But her venom was a toxin without an antidote, at least one he could find.

"No," Violet interrupted again. She set her tea aside as well. While tea was delicious, sometimes it was only a prop in her life, during conversations such as this one. "No, she told me none of that. Because she is your wife and that is between the two of you. Moreover, she is the Countess of Grantham she knows better than to hang her dirty sheets on a line to dry–even with me. Finally, Cora–while sometimes dense–is not actually unintelligent and would never speak ill of you to me, though I believe she has reason to speak ill of you."

Robert sputtered.

Just as she had when he had been a child, she silenced him with a look. "While she is the Countess, you are the Earl, yet here you are, living at Crawley House as if Gracie is a magic lamp that might magically bring peace into your life. Gracie is not your atonement. She is a child, to be enjoyed, and to love. Don't" she snapped when Robert tried to speak over her. "You took vows, Robert. _Vows_."

"I know what vows I took, Mama," Robert said. Though his voice was even, his eyes spat anger back at her. "I know _exactly_ what I vowed."

Sighing, Violet leaned back as if weary, as if trying a different approach, when all of this had been planned ahead of time. "I know you love Gracie very much. As do I." Robert nodded. "Do you want to teach her that it is acceptable to run from her problems?"

"Of course not," Robert retorted. "But it's as if Cora has snapped. Every memory, every time either you or I were rude or mean or even hinted at the lack of an heir has emerged. She's very angry at both of us. She doesn't believe we've changed. What would you have me do, Mama?"

Slowly, she replied, "I would have you take responsibilities for your actions."

"I have apologized–"

"Listen to me, please," Violet asked. "I am responsible for what I said to Cora and what I said to you on the subject. I regret it but that is another conversation. This is one about responsibility. I am responsible for pressuring you, for pounding the word heir into your head. That's my burden. Do you want to know what is not my responsibility?"

"What?" he asked dryly.

"Anytime you left me, after I pressured you, and went home and pressured Cora. You are responsible for that. You are responsible for any time you yourself made her feel like less of a wife or a woman. I am responsible for things I have said to you and to her. But I am not responsible for you, Robert. You were a grown man."

"Mama, I think you forget–"

"I forget nothing," she insisted. "You are responsible for those things. But you are not responsible for how Cora responded. We all have choices. And if, at the time, Cora chose to grin and bear it, like an Englishwoman, then that was her choice and her responsibility. If now, she chooses to pick that mantle back up, that is also her choice. You are not responsible for her reactions."

"Aren't you absolving us both this way? Isn't your reasoning convenient now?" Robert asked harshly.

Violet rolled her eyes. "No, you giant idiot of a son. Didn't you just hear me take responsibility for my own ugly behavior?" She took her walking stick into her hand and stood. "You should take responsibility for your ugly behavior."

"I have!" he insisted emphatically.

"Then, dear boy, you've done all you can do. Cora is responsible and accountable for her actions. If she chooses not to accept your apology, that is her choice. But haven't you learned? Don't you see? Taking on guilt that belongs to someone else is deadly." She paused, thinking of Mary, of the letters, of the look she sometimes still found in Mary's eyes. "You will be shocked to hear that I believe Cora will come around, if you stand by her. As a man, this may not make much sense to you because women are the more complicated creatures, but in Cora's mind, you abandoned her when she did not give you a son, and fed her to the wolves, which would be abandoned her when she did not meet your standards. She isn't who you want her to be now, either. I know that. But I believe that if you see her through this, the Cora you love will return."

"You've been reading fairy tales to Gracie," Robert muttered.

Violet pounded her stick into the ground. "You left her and you live here because you tried to carry guilt that did not belong to you, responsibility that did not belong to you. Go to her, be accountable for _your _actions and no one else's. I think you will find it easier."

"I'm too old for lectures, Mama," Robert sighed.

"Yes, I quite agree," Violet replied quite primly. "Yet, I find myself giving you one because you need it. Stop with this guilt over what you've done to Cora and what Cora has done to Grace. It is not yours to carry."

"What's the obsession with responsibility and guilt and ownership?" Robert rolled her eyes.

His mother reached for his hand. "You did not find Mary that night. I did. You did not write to her for a year. I did. Believe me, guilt does concern me. I know a lot about it. and for God's sake," she cried, "aren't I old enough that my advice should just be accepted when given without argument?"

Robert went home that night. He promised Gracie that tomorrow he would collect her for their already planned date to Ripon–more books, more anchors. She held onto him very tightly. "Love you, Geepa," she whispered, and he knew she meant those words as purely and truly as anyone could.

* * *

><p>Mary had known that her grandmother considered her out of earshot with her conversation with Robert, but she had not been. Everything Granny had said to her son, she had said or written to Mary. But for the first time, as she built a tower of blocks for her daughter to knock down, she finally understood at least a part of it.<p>

_I am responsible for accepting Richard's proposal._

_I am responsible for going to him and asking for help about the Pamuk story._

_I am responsible for saying: _Would I ever admit to loving a person who preferred someone else to me?

_I am responsible for pushing the wedding off._

_But I am not responsible for what he did to me once the door to the library was closed and I broke off the engagement. Even with all that I am responsible for, I am not responsible for what happened in that room and what was done to me. I did not deserve it or push him into it. The responsibility is his alone. _

She had continued to place block after block on top of one another, building something for Gracie to smash.

"Boosh!" Gracie had cried as she knocked it over.

_Boosh, _Mary had thought as she felt a weight lift from her heart, as the very box she'd stuffed everything into evaporated like water on the walkway in July. The memories may haunt her but they could no longer guilt her. The guilt was his alone.

She had meant to tell Matthew. She had known what to say, too. _I finally understand. _And yet, by the time he arrived home and dinner was eaten and the baby bathed, she found herself exhausted. "You look tired," he remarked as she awkwardly climbed into bed. When she raised an eyebrow at him, he added, "But you are growing a human being so it's understandable."

When he slid into bed next to her, she pressed her body (her belly, really) to his and put her arms around him. "One more month," she told him before kissing him, really taking her time about it, nibbling on his lips and soothing them, tilting her face, running a hand through the thickness of his hair. They both knew nothing beyond that would happen, not when Matthew could feel the kicks of their baby through her skin, vibrating against his own skin. These were sweetheart kisses. But love welled up in him, as she kissed him, filling him with happiness and, for the first time, confidence that they both could feel.

"One more month," he repeated, kissing her, just a brush of lips this time. When he looked into her eyes, he saw everything he felt mirrored there.

_Look at us, we are going to make it. _

_Look at us, _

_we are going to make it. _

It all felt blissfully normal–how many times she woke in the middle of the night because the baby was pressed against her bladder, she couldn't say. Each time, Matthew, light sleeper that he was, would be awake waiting for her, and each time Mary would say, _Matthew, maybe you should sleep in the dressing room. I'm keeping you awake. _And each time, Matthew would curl his hand into her hair, his voice rough, and say: _But I can't sleep without you anyway. This is fine, more than fine. _They danced this dance all through the night and each time, she completely forgot to tell him that something important from earlier. And each time, she remembered as her heavy lids closed, she told herself that there would be plenty of moments of peace and wakefulness–of time in general–to tell him what she'd finally realized.

_I finally understand. It wasn't my fault at all, was it?_

* * *

><p>The next morning, even with Matthew's alarm clock failing to ring, Mary felt <em>so <em>tired, her body _so _heavy. Still, she moved slowly down the stairs to see him off; the baby kicking restlessly beneath her skin would not allow her to go back to sleep. She kissed him goodbye and smiled sleepily at him when he rubbed her belly in the doorway and whispered, "Now, behave for your mama. All right?"

He kissed her again, hands at the base of the neck feeling for knots. "Go back to sleep," he murmured against his lips. "You need it."

"Gracie will be up in ten minutes," Mary reminded him. "And we don't have Papa as our nanny anymore."

"But..."

"I'll be fine, Matthew," she smiled and gave him a gentle push out the door. "Don't worry, Papa," she added with her hand on her stomach, "We can make it until you get home later."

As if on cue, Gracie began to cry. It had been so long since she'd wakened this way, crying instead of calling for Mama or Papa, that both Mary and Matthew stilled for a minute. "Why don't you sit down?" Matthew suggested, taking her arm and moving her towards the divan. "I'll bring her down to you."

"Matthew," Mary complained on his behalf. "You're already late." But he was already halfway up the stairs and she was _so _very tired and heavy that she leaned back and closed her eyes.

Gracie was standing in her crib, stamping her feet, tears pooling in her eyes and spilling over, and lips trembling. It was the look he'd first fallen in love with, the moment he knew she was meant to be his. It was the like the first time in New York, when Mary allowed him to come into the nursery, when they had talked about baby sweat and he had taken Gracie into his arms and she had curled into him as if she belonged there.

Because she _did_ belong there.

It was so clear now.

She did the same thing now, though she was bigger, wrapping her arms around his neck and curling into him, murmuring a pitiful _Papa_ into his neck, her tears leaving a bit of his shirt and skin wet. "Let's go to Mama," he whispered, and the walk back downstairs to Mary seemed too short when he handed Gracie off to her mother.

"We'll be fine," Mary insisted as Gracie set a hand on the mound of her belly. "Really. We'll see you tonight."

He did worry, though. Of course, he did. He knew her back ached and he knew that mothering Gracie was a demanding job and yet, when he found Sir Richard Carlisle sitting in his office, Matthew found he had bigger things to worry about. He was thrown, of course, from the pretty picture of his domestic bliss, to this man so repugnant. Carlisle was so real it hurt, the smell of his hair pomade lingering in the air, documents he'd brought neatly lined up on Matthew's desk.

Without turning around to greet him, Richard Carlisle spoke to Matthew Crawley's empty chair. "You see, Crawley, I find myself in need of a solicitor. I know your speciality is industrial law but I thought you would be interested in this case specifically. It's a matter of paternity."

* * *

><p><em>AN: One chapter closer to the end...and we are awfully close..._


	52. Chapter 52

_A/N: I am sorry this has taken so long, really. But it could not have been avoided, really. Major life transition happened in three days and I had to pack up my things and move across the country so please, I beg of you, grace! Thank you all for the wonderful comments...I haven't had time to respond to them...wi fi is not up yet...But I love you all. You are all the best. As always, major props to Faeyero who is the best. PS, everyone, don't hate me._

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><p>Chapter Fifty Two<p>

Matthew still had the picture in his mind of Mary and Gracie cuddled together on the divan, both their hands rubbing Mary's impossibly large belly as he waved goodbye, when he saw Carlisle, when he heard the smirk in Carlisle's voice: "You see, Crawley, I find myself in need of a solicitor. I know your speciality is industrial law but I thought you would be interested in this case specifically. It's a matter of paternity."

The juxtaposition of the sweet domestic scene, seemingly out of a fairy tale, and the villain in his office, was like a sucker punch to the gut for Matthew. No, it was worse.

It was as if a shell exploded near him, but not close enough, and the ringing in his ears that signaled he was alive but barely. No, it was even worse than that.

It was a shell exploding too close this time, too close to move or think, and William's body crashing into his, his own back hitting the ground like two blocks of wood pounded together. Seeing Carlisle, after saying goodbye to his family such a short time ago, felt like that–only this time he wouldn't pass out and then be found, his body protected by someone else's, found and drugged on morphine until he could stand the pain, found and druggged until there was no pain, no feeling at all.

No, this time the pain, the rage, the despair would not be dulled by any drug. The only paralysis that came was in his brain, even as his chest expanded with feeling. It was as if he'd forgotten his lines in a play and the audience–Carlisle–was waiting in eerie silence that only dulled his brain further. Carlisle had caught Matthew off guard; there was simply no denying that. The man looked as if he'd come straight off the train. In fact, a newspaper was rolled into the handle of his briefcase and his suit, while stylish, was not worn with the same too-careful precision like the last time Carlisle visited. Behind the smirk, Matthew could see a confusion, a worry, a new wrinkle on the man's forehead. Carlisle was very obviously disturbed by something. And then Matthew could suddenly remember his lines again; he could remember what was at stake–his very family–and he forced his body to unclench, to let go of the shocked expression, and shield himself, shield them all, behind a cold mask of disinterest. He moved to his desk and sat down, without glancing at the papers Carlisle had already laid out.

"I don't think I can help you," Matthew finally answered. "As you said, I specialize in industrial law."

Carlisle grinned, and his slick smile carved out even more lines in his lean face. He looked a bit like an aging lion who'd gone too long without a kill, all skin and bones, all desperation and thirst. "But I think you'll be interested nonetheless." With his hand he gestured to the documents in front of them.

Matthew's eyes briefly flickered over them until he came to the photograph. It was a bit grainy, but it was very obviously Mary, pushing the pram with a smiling Gracie in it. He could see the blur of the little girl's kicking feet. The photograph must have been taken later in the summer since Mary also held Baby's leash; by then the dog had been too big to ride and trotted alongside them whether Mary liked it or not. Matthew imagined they were on their way to town–to greet him or to stop at the bakery, or perhaps both. "What is this, Carlisle?" Matthew asked through his teeth.

"Well obviously that's a photograph of your wife and what may or may not be your child," Carlisle replied, and again Matthew heard the shell whistling through the air, about to land near him and those he loved, and he did not know which way to move or jump. Carlisle sat back in his chair. He no longer seemed excited. In fact, his mood seemed to have plummeted to his own version of despair, the aging lion once again. "One of us has been played for a fool, Crawley. Obviously, I don't like you and you don't like me. But I thought you would want to know."

"Want to know what?" Matthew spat, a bit dumbfounded by Carlisle's shift in tone. Nonetheless, Matthew felt as though he had to be aggressive. Carlisle's words were too close to the truth, buoyant and rising to the surface.

"When you two returned married, I put some investigators in New York on the situation. Something didn't sit right. In my business, you learn to trust your instincts. You learn hardly anything is as simple as it seems. " Carlisle smiled briefly but then turned serious again. "It took quite awhile. But the first thing they found was your marriage license to Mary...from April of this year. This intrigued me and in fact was the thing that kept me paying their exorbitant fees these last months."

"Speed it up, Carlisle," Matthew insisted.

"Well, again, I trust my instincts. I was only made aware of the marriage when Mary returned, hence why I...sent the gift. But you had a family. You're an honorable man, Crawley. Honor practically beams out of you. I suppose that's why I assumed you and Mary had been married long before April. I suppose that's why Robert took to you so quickly, though you _were_ middle class," Carlisle added parenthetically. A quick wolfish grin appeared on his face, though it only made him appear more manically distraught: "Obviously, I don't have your same sense of honor, because Robert never took to me."

"Perhaps it had to do with your lack of propriety as you are calling _Lord Grantham_ by his Christian name," Matthew offered. He was panicking beneath his skin. He could feel it. But he knew this feeling well–as he'd watched the dirty pocketwatch in his dirty hands in the dirty trenches, waiting for the seconds to tick down, waiting to call out for his men to go up and over-to live or die, no one knowing until it was over.

"Don't you understand?" Carlisle asked, his voice low. "I'm trying to _help _you. Like I said, you're honorable. If you'd known about that child, you would have married Mary. But she ran away."

"Yes." That was all Matthew was willing to give. He could not deny the documented fact that Mary had left the country quickly, and since Carlisle had the marriage license, he could not deny when they'd married.

"She told me that you two had been together while we were still engaged." Carlisle watched Matthew now, as if they were playing cards and he was looking for a tell–a rub of the jaw, a wrinkling of the brow.

"Mary's not a liar," Matthew responded calmly.

"Well, all right." Carlisle moved his shoulders as if shaking something off. He did not seem like himself. "That wasn't quite _honorable_ of you, since I was engaged to her at the time of your _indiscretion, _but I suppose every man has lapses in character."

Matthew wondered if Carlisle considered the small library _a lapse in character _or worse–_an indiscretion. _

"Don't try and goad me by lying as you did before, claiming you knew Mary in an intimate way during your engagement," Matthew said sternly. "You're lucky I've listened so far. You and I both know what you did to her. There is no use pretending otherwise." He wondered what it would mean to Mary to know that Carlisle knew how heinous his actions had been. It would not mean much to Matthew–very little in fact, especially face to face with this man, this creature, the monster in the closet, the villain in the fairy tale.

Carlisle's jaw tightened and he spoke quickly. "Perhaps I was a bit overzealous with my affections, but the point is that Mary and I had relations and nine months later there was a baby." He pointed to the birth certificate. "I'm sure maths are no trouble for you. How can you be sure that this child is yours?"

Without looking down at the document, Matthew met Carlisle's eye. "It's my name on the birth certificate, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," Carlisle noted, sitting back in his chair. "That was the extraordinary part. It took quite a while for this to be found. You see, it was filed wrong. It was filed in April of this year instead of when the child was actually born. Don't you find that curious?"

"No," Matthew replied stiffly.

"Well, I did. See, here is what I think happened." He leaned forward now, his elbows on his knees, as if he was telling Matthew the most interesting of news stories. "Somehow, Mary got in touch with you. She told you some story and you came and met the child and you took Mary at her word. So you married her and took the child on as your own. You believed her," Carlisle surmised, folding his arms. "Yet, she bamboozled you. That child could just as easily be mine as yours."

Matthew laughed. He laughed as hard as he could, holding his belly. He laughed as if his own life depended on it. He picked up the photograph and shoved it at Carlisle. "Look at that child," he demanded. "Do you see a bit of you in her?"

"No," Carlisle agreed. "But I don't see a bit of you in her either," he argued. "All I see is Mary. She's entirely Mary."

"Well, your investigators failed to tell you that sometimes when _my daughter_ is thinking very deeply about something, she wears the same expression as I do," Matthew claimed passionately because this was the truth. These were not lines written on paper but hard truths carved in stone. "And when Mary does something ridiculous, Grace's face matches mine. Sometimes I catch her measuring her words; I do that as well. You've been misinformed. That child is my child as much as she is Mary's."

"Well, I'm not convinced," Carlisle heaved wearily. He unfolded his arms. "I came to you out of respect. I thought you might understand, that you might care that you had been trapped."

"I'm not trapped." Now, Matthew did smile, slowly and fully. "I'm happy. My family is happy. I don't understand your obsession with us."

"My gut says something is off here, Crawley. If it is, I thought you ought to know," Carlisle responded as he stood up. "Obviously, I was wrong to think you'd care."

Matthew stood as well. He gathered up all the documents but for the photograph and handed them to Carlisle. "You were wrong. And I'm not slow, Carlisle. You say you've always known I was honorable; I've also always known you disliked me. You aren't trying to look out for me," Matthew insisted. "You must be joking."

Carlisle took a step towards the desk. "No, I never liked you, the reason being I knew you wanted Mary and that some twisted part of her felt badly for you and wanted Downton at the same time. The way you looked at her...I knew it was only a matter of time. It was crass the way you two fawned over each other in the most polite and proprietary of ways but I thought, if we had both been lied to by the classiest of bitches–"

"Carlisle!" Matthew cut him off immediately. "Watch yourself. That's my wife you are speaking of. If you don't leave right now, there will be consequences."

It was Carlisle's turn to laugh. "Crawley, idle threats are weak. What consequences?"

Matthew's smile blossomed slowly across his face. "You think you're the only one who has had investigators on retainer?"

* * *

><p>Robert walked quickly to Crawley House since he was eager to see his granddaughter, to feel her hand in his, her quick little jumps of eagerness at the thought of a day out with her grandfather. He was hopeful they could find a book to replace <em>Jack and the Beanstalk<em>, because she had asked everyone to read it more times than they wanted to. And yet they did, never saying no, because they loved her, because she asked sweetly, because it had nothing to do with spoiling her and everything to do with spending time with her. _You are worth the time spent reading this book a million times over, _he would think as they rocked in Mary's rocking chair. _You are worth it. _He always hoped somehow, magically, like in those fairy tales, he could impart those words to Gracie, that they might stick to her very skin and protect her, like a charm, from the evils of the world.

He had never rocked with Mary and read her favorite book. He had never pressed his cheek to her hair and thought: _You are worth it. _Even knowing it was stupid, he regretted it, tasting old, sick cranberries. Even if it wasn't a charm, he now knew the sweetness of laying a cheek against a quick and eager child's hair, while they read the same story over and over again, and whenever he skipped a page, Gracie knew it no matter how late the hour or how tired she appeared. Robert could never be sure if it made him happy or sad to know that if he would have rocked Mary she would have noticed skipped pages in the very same way.

He felt very undeserving of all the second chances that he was being given, gifts–graces–he did not deserve. Robbie rode Grandpapa like a horse and Maggie smiled up at him (no matter what his mother claimed). And there was Gracie. Like sunshine she'd slowly thawed out his awkwardness, his own hurt, his discomfort. She'd charmed him. And though his mother had been right about returning home and sleeping beside Cora (whose bitterness seemed to have mellowed to a foggy discontent), Robert had, of course, missed rocking Gracie to sleep. He had to remind himself that second chances only went so far, that Gracie was not Mary, that Gracie was not his to rock to sleep _every _night.

Still, he grinned when Gracie ran to him as she saw him enter the house. She pulled at his hands and danced as if she stood on a ground covered in fire and if he picked her up he could save her. Robert took her into his arms as Mary struggled to maneuver and stand from the divan. She looked tired and strained and a bit peaky, but after several of Gracie's kisses, he walked to his daughter.

"Are you all right?" he asked her. In his arms, Gracie tilted her head like a baby owl.

"I'm pregnant," she replied. What other answer could she give him? She had to use the toilet all the time. She could not sleep comfortably in any position. Her insides felt like punching bags for a tiny human. Her walk had become a waddle. She could barely get her own self from sitting to standing.

"You look–" Robert began but stopped when Mary arched an eyebrow at him.

"Big." Gracie supplied, her face serious, "Mama so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so big!"

Mary wanted to growl at the two of them looking at her so innocently. "I'm _pregnant_," she repeated as calmly as she could. To Gracie she added, "Mama has a baby inside of her." Mary ignored Gracie's brown eyes rolling. _Mama, _she seemed to be saying, _you've been growing that baby for a very long time. _Mary did not bother to correct the eye roll since she quite agreed. How long had it been since Gracie had found her retching into the toilet and Mary was forced to explain what was happening?

Forever.

It had been forever ago. Mary was certain.

"You just look...uncomfortable," Robert stated, choosing his words carefully. "Maybe Gracie and I should stay here and look after you."

Gracie frowned. She did not want to do that. She liked her dates with Geepapa.

"Of course I'm uncomfortable." Mary was the one to roll her eyes this time. "Wouldn't you be, like this?" She gestured to her overwhelming stomach. "That doesn't mean I am going into _labor._ You should go and enjoy yourselves." She paused. "But Papa, use some self control this time. I won't have Gracie spoiled."

Gracie smiled triumphantly. They were going on an adventure.

"I just feel as though–"

"Papa," Mary interrupted gently. "I'll be fine. I'm going to try and nap. Make sure she wears her hat and mittens." Mary took a step forward, her stomach nearly touching Gracie. She leaned over and rubbed noses with the child. "Do you know how much I love you?"

Gracie giggled. "So, so, so, so, so, so, so, so!"

"More," Mary insisted, giving her daughter a kiss. Though she knew the little girl did not understand, she went on, "It's more. It's always more than you'll ever really know."

* * *

><p>Later, they would wonder how it happened, how everything could have fallen into place for such a thing to happen. Later, they would stay up nights asking themselves <em>what if<em>. It would become a game they would always lose. Later. Later.

It began simply. Most things, even the worst things, usually do.

Mary trudged up the stairs to bed, to see if it would be possible to sleep even for just a few minutes. It wasn't. But she felt obliged to stay in the bed since it would take so much work to get up again.

Later, she would remember feeling so uncomfortable, yet running her hand over her belly, smiling, thinking: _soon. _Later, she would remember the excitement she'd felt because _this _time she was not afraid of being a good mother and _this_ time she had Matthew. Later, she would remember all of this. Later. Later.

There was a knock outside the door and Mary called, "Come in." There was a subtle cough that was Molesley's way of informing her that it was the butler and not Mrs. Byrd or the girl who cleaned twice a week and that he couldn't very well enter her bedroom. It would not be proper.

"Come in!" she barked. Later, she would remember how grouchy she sounded, with her hand on her belly, her hand on the baby, her own skin the only thing separating her from her child, protecting that child from the world. "I can't get up easily, Molesley."

The door creaked open and a shaken Molesley stood in the doorway. "I'm sorry to disturb you, milady," he told her as he rubbed his hands together. "It's only...It's only..." He was shaking and yet he did not set a foot in the bedroom. "My father...He had a fall...My mother said...He's at the hospital now..."

"Go," Mary told him, trying her best to sit up. "Of course you must go and be with them. Don't worry about things here, Molesley."

"Well, that's just it, milady," Molesley implored. "Mrs. Byrd only just left to do the marketing and I don't feel right about leaving you just now. Mr. Crawley has said–"

"Molesley," Mary cut him off as kindly as possible. "I don't know what Mr. Crawley told you. But I can assure you that no medical emergencies are happening at this time with _Mrs. _Crawley and that you should go and be with your family." She smiled. She'd managed to sit up. "Go," she insisted. And he went.

Later, Molesley would try to give his notice for leaving. Later, Matthew would not accept it. Later, resentment–not at the butler, but at the circumstances-would give Matthew chest pains. Later, Matthew would have to say: _It's not your fault. _Later, Matthew would try to tell himself the same thing less successfully. Later. Later.

But for now, Mary struggled to rise from the bed. The winter sun was shining. She could hear Baby downstairs prancing around, her fancy collar jangling as if she needed to do her business. Though it took a while, Mary was able to let the dog out. She watched the dog sniff at the frosted grass and choose her spot. She still found herself dumbfounded at the fact that they had a dog at felt the cold through the glass of the window but it wasn't unpleasant. Later, she would remember the simplicity of rubbing her belly, watching the dog, the baby kicking, kicking kicking. When Baby was finally ready to come in, Mary opened the door with a sigh as Baby immediately sat in front of where the treats were kept. "What will you be like with a newborn?" she asked the dog.

Later, that question would be completely irrelevant. Later.

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><p><em>AN: Like I said...don't hate me. What did you think?_


	53. Chapter 53

_A/N: So here it the long anticipated chapter? Thank you for your patience with me. I moved across the country and I am moving again. My life is crazy, and I really mean that literally. I would tell you more but I live a double life. :) I am so thankful to Faeyero who has been on this roller coaster ride with me. Also mad props to mayberrygal109 for her cover art. Gorgeous._

_ It's not over yet but this was the hardest chapter yet to write. I know I haven't responded to comments; I am so sorry. I need to get with it. Once I move, again, I will. I promise. Fair warning. This chapter has some violence in it._

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><p>Chapter Fifty Three<p>

It was not difficult to keep his composure as he left Crawley's office and stepped into the frigid air. There was talk of snow. He'd remembered his hat but forgotten his scarf. Yes, it took a moment for the anger, the rage, really, to hit Richard fully. He remembered falling from a rusty swing when he was a boy and hitting the ground so hard the breath was sucked from his chest. For a moment, he had felt nothing. And then he had felt everything. It had slammed into him. Now, his mouth twisted wryly as he walked away from Crawley's office. For months now, since Mary's return, he was that boy falling from the swing, the sky so blue it hurt his eyes, knowing he would hit the ground and yet not knowing it, panicking at the coming pain, unable to prepare.

Now, at this exact moment, his back hit the ground. He could hear the smack. He _was _the smack.

Everything inside of him shuddered to a stop. His breath was gone from his body.

And then he felt _everything._

He did not think of his wife, though she was somewhere in the back of his head, the hurt in her eyes riper than the juiciest of peaches. He did not hear the sounds of his own fists on the face that was close but not close enough to the woman he twistedly believed he loved. He did not think of the child that was his or her his wife's weeping as she held her hands over her flat belly. Or even of Crawley and their latest meeting.

He only thought of Mary.

Mary.

For Richard Carlisle, loving Mary Crawley had begun in his chest, as she smirked at him that first time, as if a hand had brushed itself against his heart, making it quiver. After that first meeting and first conversation–watching her head bow as she thought of a witty response, the white curve of her neck, her eyebrows raised–he had realized she quite literally held his heart in her hands, a living, breathing, beating thing. He had no defense against her except to make sure she never knew of it, never knew that in those pale and delicate hands, sat his stone cold heart, warmed by the heat of her very much alive skin.

That's why he did not tell her how he loved her–when he asked her to marry him–even knowing that she had not and may never give her heart to him, to hold in his ink stained hands, the hands that grew up in a house where dirt under the fingernails had not been noticed. Of course then, when he'd asked her, he'd had no idea that she'd already given her heart away. Though, looking back, he should have known better. He should have seen? How else could she have sat so still while she told him of Pamuk and her predicament? She was not telling her secret to the man whose hands held her heart, the man whose hands could choose to crush it or nurture it. The only thing at stake had been Richard's opinion of her, a risk that wasn't a risk at all, not when even then he would have given her everything if she only would have looked at him, looked at him and _seen, _seen what she meant to him, what lengths he would go to for her, all of it.

But she had kept her eyes down. She had not seen.

Sometimes that was the story Richard told himself.

Other times, it all seemed premeditated, as if the whole time she'd known she held his heart in her hands and every time she had pushed the wedding back or looked to Matthew before her own fiancé, she'd knowingly squeezed her grip a little tighter.

Even stone could bleed if squeezed hard enough by one as heartless as Mary Crawley.

She was evil and deserved everything she got. She was privileged and spoiled and did not even know what fighting for something looked like (because hadn't he fought for her?). All she knew how to do was crush hearts and flick away people's feelings like unwanted bugs. Or worse, she cut people, so deeply it took them a moment to feel it. For God's sake, he'd seen her do it to Edith enough times. And to him, by God. She was cruel and cold. And yes, of course, she was careful.

Sometimes he told himself that version instead.

He left Crawley, the familiar feeling of rage beating inside of him, like a drum, the blood at his temples throbbing, his hands fisted tight. There was an itch on his neck. He forgot his briefcase. He walked quickly with a sense of purpose but if someone would have stopped him and asked him, _Where are you going? _he would not have had a destination in his head, not consciously. Still, he was being dragged there all the same.

He told himself that, too.

He told himself Mary was squeezing his heart even now and even if Crawley refused to see what that woman, what that cold flesh impersonating a human had done, Richard could see. He did see. His temples continued to throb. He started to grind his teeth. His hat was pulled low, under the brim of it, his eyes saw the world in front of him, the frost on the grass and did not see it at all. They saw Mary.

Mary.

The magnet pull continued and his feet went on striding with purpose.

In the small library when she had said, as if it were so obvious, _You must see we'd never be happy_,he had felt as though she'd crushed his stone heart to dust, to ash. He could taste it in his throat, the aftermath of a fire that burned his very insides out and left them blackened. And then...

Well.

Sometimes, in his memory, he only coldly retorted: _Well, you saw to that, didn't you, darling? _and left the house.

He left the house.

He left her behind.

But at night, when his eyes opened in darkness, and he was pulled from sleep, he remembered and it repulsed and frightened him, just as what he did to his wife repulsed and frightened him. The only way to go back to sleep was to tell himself a story, to believe a lie. And if he couldn't fall asleep, because he thought of his mother, and how she had been ever so clumsy and had always been walking into doors, and how enraged he had been at her for believing her own stories, for thinking that he, Richard, would believe them too, then he took a pill and he did not dream.

In the small library, it had been as if fire were in front of his eyes, bloody and thick. Her face had been there as well, her neck in his hands. He wanted to scream: _This is what it happens when you make stone bleed. _But he had not known how to open his mouth. He had not known how to do anything but what came after and now the memory was blurred and distorted by that awful raging red.

Though even now, walking, he remembered buttoning his pants, seeing her there on the floor. It had confused him. How had she gotten there?

She walked into a door.

She was ever so clumsy.

Sometimes that's how he remembered it, too.

He had considered he may have gotten her pregnant; he had hoped for it, hoped that she would come to him as she had before and they would have married. He had believed she could have learned to love him but she had not wanted to try. It all came down to what Mary wanted.

All of it.

Richard, as a man with a real beating heart, had not mattered then and did not matter now. It was so painfully obvious and in his ears, as Richard turned the corner, he heard a sound like nails on a chalkboard, an urgency, the same type of urgency a woman in labor feels when she must bear down and push. He gave birth to every hateful thought he had, until it hit him in the head with the deadliness of a stroke, and his feet took him to Crawley House–his destination all along.

She had not wanted him. Sometimes he was able to admit that. In the small library, she had not wanted him. It was the only time he could remember ever doing what he wanted in the whole of knowing her.

Richard had imagined this–pounding on the door with his fist, forcing Mary to have her moment of reckoning and even as it happened, even as his hand hit the very real door, it seemed a dream, or perhaps a nightmare. No, definitely a nightmare with the way that blood hazed in front of his eyes again.

And it was a dream. Since even as he pounded and there was no answer, his hand reached for the doorknob and twisted it.

It was not locked.

All Richard could think as it twisted in the harshness of his grip was that this unlocked door was a sign, an omen. If he had been more himself, he might have called it fate and smirked, since self made men don't believe in such things. But he was not himself. And yet he was more himself than he had ever been before.

The door was opening for him and there was Mary, full of someone else's child, framed in the doorway, looking bewildered and beautiful.

* * *

><p>Mary heard the hard insistent knocking on the door. "Come on," she told Baby, who ignored her instead, went on eating her treat without delicacy. Even as the knocking–pounding, really–continued, Mary was moving slowly from the back of the house to the front, her hand braced on the small of her back. She worried that something worse had gone wrong for Molesley. Even with the butler's worried face in her mind, while she was still meters from the door, it opened.<p>

It did not just open but was fiercely swung so it hit the wall, and she knew from the sound it made, though her eyes did not leave Richard's face, that the knob had left a mark, if not a hole, in the the plaster of the wall.

He left marks everywhere.

A part of her was still the girl in the library, who even as she ended the engagement and expected him to leave like a gentleman, saw the mania in his eyes, the lion kept in a cage for over two years, and knew that at the very least this lion, this man, would not leave without taking a few pieces of herself with him. The fear had started delicately, a curl of smoke twisting into the air. It had ended like a blaze, a fire, and when he was finished taking his pound of flesh from her, she was burned and singed. It had been the type of fire that dies not because of rain but because there is simply nothing else for it to eat, to char, to kill, to devour.

Mary had survived, of course. But that only meant, right now, as she looked at Richard, so much the same as her nightmares, that she knew what to fear, what lengths he would go to. She did not have the ignorance of the Mary who had ended the engagement and watched the lion warily, some part of her sickly confident she could control him. Mary's fear, this time, did not begin delicately but slammed into her, stronger than any contraction could ever be, and flooded her so that she could not move, not even a finger. Her hand remained on the small of her back, the other on her stomach. She forgot to breathe.

And yet.

She could feel her child move within her, the aches that came with being eight months pregnant. She thought of the lion analogy again as Richard snarled her name in greeting, his eyes squinted and angry. He would rip her throat out if he could, she realized. They were alone. If she screamed and yelled, he would hurt her sooner rather than later. If she waddled towards the phone, he'd do the same. There was no way out.

The baby kicked.

If he was a lion then Mary must be a tigress, she realized, protecting her cubs fiercely and viciously. She was not an ignorant girl in a library but a _mother. _

"I know." He shut the door and stepped into her home and his voice was filled with rage. "I know your secret."

"What secret is that?" she replied calmly, moving–sidling, really–toward the divan; one didn't turn her back on a wild animal. "I'm sure you know, as a newspaperman, that everyone has some secrets. Perhaps it's the human condition?"

"Shut up!" His words shot from his mouth like bullets as he raised his voice. "I know," he repeated as he began to pace. "You must think I'm stupid for not realizing sooner."

"I don't think you're stupid," she told him so honestly that for a moment he paused and stared at her, recognizing the statement as truth. "I've never thought that."

He shook his head, refusing to be sucked in by her beauty, by the blush on her cheeks, and her neck, spreading down her neck and beneath her dress. His eyes did not move lower than that. He did not want to think of the child she carried so he would not think of it. "That child is mine!" he shouted instead, the veins in his neck bulging.

She forced confusion over her face. Her forehead wrinkled. "What are you talking about? I can assure you this baby," she looked down at her stomach, forcing him to see her as she was for a moment, "has nothing to do with you. Neither do I. Why are you here?"

He slapped her so quickly, she never saw it coming. There was no preparing for it. He slapped her so hard she stumbled, her hand catching herself on the divan's arm, and felt blood in her mouth. She closed her eyes and let her breath shudder out.

"Do not lie to me," he heaved, as if the slap cost him just as much as it did her. "The girl. The one that looks like you. She's mine."

"Richard, don't be ridiculous," she forced herself to scoff, and this time she was not surprised when he slapped her, this time with the back of his hand. This time, it took longer to catch her breath. This was worse than her nightmares because of the children, the children, her babies, how to protect both of them, right now, with the monster from all the stories ready to eat her and hers alive.

"For once," he yelled at her, "I want the truth from you! I want you to say it."

"Say what?" she asked wearily, and this time he reached forward and pulled her hair so her face was close to his. She could smell peppermint on his breath.

"That girl. Who is her father?" he whispered harshly, the words sucked from his insides.

She winced, felt tears she could not control slide from her eyes as he pulled her hair harder.

_I lose._

_No matter what, I lose._

If she told him the truth, that she had kept his daughter from him, she doubted she would leave this house alive. And she had made herself and Gracie a promise–that she would never tell him the truth. And what of the baby inside of her? The baby whose face she awaited with eager expectation? How to protect that baby too?

_What of my babies?_

So Mary let go. She made her body only a body. She surrendered to whatever would come to it. She had to think of it that way and strategize so that somehow this body, this shell continued to protect the precious cargo inside of it.

"Matthew is her father," she whispered to him and when he shoved her back, she thanked God that the divan was there to cushion her fall.

"You'll pay for that," he warned her, stepping towards her.

"Pay for what? The truth?" she asked him, feeling dizzy. "I'm pregnant, Richard. Please," she begged. She would beg, if that's what he wanted, to save her child. And yet she knew that was not what he wanted. "Please."

He did not hear her. She could see that.

"Who is that bastard girl's father?" he asked again, slowly, punctuating each word with a puff of breath.

"No matter how much you want it, she isn't yours," Mary replied wearily. _I will not give her to you. She is not yours. And no matter how much you want it, I will never be yours. _

_I will die never belonging to you. _

Her cheek accepted the slap. More blood filled her mouth. She hardly felt it. How could she feel anything other than gratitude that her baby was safe as he continued to attack her face while she was cushioned by the divan? But the second slap, in quick succession, his hand plowing into her face one way then back again, snuck under her defenses. She felt something in her cheek snap. Or perhaps she heard it. Her ears were ringing and it was too difficult to tell. And when she cowered down, making her body a cover for her belly, for the baby, he only pulled her back up by the hair and punched her, his hand fisted, his knuckles sharp. As if from a distance, she heard him growl, heard him scream, "You don't deserve to."

He didn't have to finish his sentence. In the small library it had been, _you don't deserve to walk away whole. _Now it was simply: _you don't deserve to walk away at all._

There wasn't only madness in his voice, his eyes, his grip on her. There was a sharp sense of clarity, like the most pungent of smells, as if he'd finally figured out the riddle and was the smartest boy in the class.

_Either way I lose._

She neither heard nor saw Baby run and jump, the dog's pure instinct making her jump and bite at his throat, his jugular. But Mary did hear Baby shriek (and it was a shriek) when Richard blocked her and laughed, flinging the dog against the wall. He turned back to Mary. It was exactly like her nightmares. He looked so calm and his voice was even and everything made some terrifying sort of sense. "It has to end," he said and reached for her neck. The girl in the library would have agreed. She would have acquiesced. She did not know how to endure pain like this. She'd learned how giving birth to Gracie; she'd learned that when you endure pain for someone you love, when pan brings life instead of death, it is wholly different.

_How long before they find me, _Mary thought. _How long can a baby live inside a dead body? Will they be able to cut me open? Will this child take a first breath?_

_I'm just a body._

_But remember, baby, Mama loved you so._

One of his ruddy hands gripped her throat.

And then there was Baby, quick and fierce, snarling viciously and biting, chomping, tearing. Mary could barely see but she heard Richard scream, "My hand!" And yet Baby did not let go, not even when his other hand left Mary's neck and hit the dog on the side of her head as hard as he could. Baby continued to chew on his hand as if it were a hunk of rope and this was the most high stake game of tug of war she would ever play.

It was only then that Mary began to weep, though she could not feel the tears on her own cheeks. She wept because Baby would not let go. Baby, the dog she'd kicked herself (playfully, of course) and grumbled over, the dog she'd been so angry at her father for giving to Gracie.

_You love me and are protecting me even though I don't deserve it, even though I've never lifted a hand to you in affection, _she thought towards Baby and knew she must be delirious, crazy, to weep over the grace of a dog.

Mary let her body sink back into the divan and watched through a slit in one eye–her only vision at the moment–as Richard finally tore his hand out of Baby's mouth wide open with screams Mary could not hear through the ringing of her ears.

_Don't you know, _she thought, _you cannot get away without having pieces of you taken._

_You took pieces of me. Don't you remember?_

She slumped further over. She tried to focus on her baby moving even as Richard kicked the dog so hard she yelped and fell to the side, unmoving, even as he ran from the house. How very different than his once stoic buttoning of his pants in the small library. But she could not feel. She could not feel anything.

Neither Baby nor baby made a sound.

She knew she would lose consciousness. She felt it coming on slowly. _Fee-fi-fo-fum._ She had read it to Grace so many times, and yet that the story would come to her now seemed ridiculous. And she would give everything she owned to sit with both her children in her lap, in their beloved rocking chair, the chair that rocked miles, and read the favored story even one last time, making silly voices, smelling their hair..._Fee-fi-fo-fum, _she thought because to think of the smell of her children's hair hurt. She could not swallow the lump in her throat as the darkness dimmed the slit of her eye.

_Fee_

_Fi_

_Fo–_

* * *

><p><em>AN: Sorry. . .?_


	54. Chapter 54

_A/N: So. I know that the last chapter was very difficult to read. Believe me, it was difficult to write. Also, believe me or don't, it was not gratuitous. You will see why in time. I must thank all of you that have been so supportive both here and on tumblr, both towards my writing and my personal life. 99.9% of my readers are incredible. You don't always agree with me and that's okay but you are kind and thoughtful and you have been so supportive. Speaking of supportive, I must always thank Faeyero, who you should also thank, because she will be kicking me in the butt to finish this story. She is invaluable, as always._

_I always planned on this chapter being dedicated to Kavan–who always, from her very first introduction, understood that Baby was much more than a dog. Kavan was the first one to wear a team Baby t-shirt loudly and proudly, asking for her when she was not included in a chapter. This one was always meant for you, Kavan._

* * *

><p>Chapter Fifty Four<p>

The stories all began the same: _Once upon a time..._

They ended the same way, too: _happily ever after..._

Yet, Gracie never seemed to tire of them, whether the books were clumsily illustrated or had gilded pages that were heavy to turn in her little hands, sometimes sticky with a recent treat Robert had given her: _Shh, don't tell Mama. _Even without treats she loved the fairy tales. And Robert found himself tremendously happy, lucky even, that his granddaughter not only liked fairy tales but loved them. Whether he could articulate it or not, his heart burst at the idea that she might always believe in fairy tales–that Gracie's life would be what Mary's should have been but for the villain. Of course, _Jack and the Beanstalk _remained Gracie's favorite and Robert ended up buying a second copy which he was sure Mary would categorize as spoiling, but a grandfather was entitled. Surely he was. A grandfather was entitled particularly when a little girl smiled up at him with a single dimple and batted her eyelashes. What was a man to do?

She made him sit down in the middle of the bookstore and read _Jack _to her. He looked highly undignified, of course. His pants wrinkled. But Gracie had pulled at his cuff and implored him with her adorable, "Geepa!" He didn't realize that this version was slightly more violent–_fee fi fo fum; I smell the blood of an Englishman; be he live, or be he dead, I'll grind his bones and make my bread_–but Gracie seemed unfazed by it because she knew what was coming. Because fairy tales always end the same.

_And they lived happily ever after._

"Happy," she told him as he closed the book, giggling a bit, and he thought he'd never been so happy as he was sitting in the middle of a bookstore, looking foolish, than at that moment, that perhaps it was the happiest of his life, actually. It was so strange, to know he had chased the idea of contentment for years in the form of brick and mortar, and now he found it in a bookstore with his granddaughter tucked near him, nearly screeching _fee fi fo fum._

_I am happy, _he thought.

Gracie must have agreed because she said it again–_happy_–as she leaned into him on the drive home, falling asleep against his side. And for one too-brief car ride, everything in his life made sense; everything had come full circle. For one too-brief car ride, he felt a peace settle around him like the warmest and softest of blankets. For one too-brief car ride, Robert believed in fairy tales again.

When he walked into Crawley house, he paused, his foot in the air, mid step. He was unprepared for the scene in front of him. There was no way to prepare for it. He felt as if someone had punched him the stomach. He could not breathe or move or think.

How could he have known what he would walk into, Gracie tucked into the crook of his neck, sleeping soundly, her breath warm against his neck? The door wide open, a table turned over, Baby on her side, whimpering quietly, as if she did not even want to be heard? Worst of all, of course, worst of all, there was Mary, not whimpering at all but so very still.

Of course, it is always shocking how the eye can take in, processing so much in so little time–Mary, still, so very still, her face purple, puffy, and angry red. There was a handprint on her cheek, though it was distorted by the swelling. God, the swelling. She did not even look like his daughter and yet she was. She was his daughter and he loved her; he had never stopped loving her, even when he hated her. And even when she had told him of Richard and what had been done in the small library he had not been able to, he had not allowed himself to imagine it. Yet, he was looking at it now. For who else but Richard could do something so horrible?

Though he clothes looked untouched, her face looked obliterated, as if the man had wanted to erase her. And she was Robert's daughter and he loved her and he had never stopped loving her, even when he hated her and now she was so still, injured beyond what he could describe. Later, he would think of it and have to close his eyes and turn away from the memory. It was too much for him. And yet now, it was not a memory but his reality, Mary's reality, and he could hear the curl of his daughter's voice,_ his baby's_ voice, float towards him in the stillness of the room: "_Papa."_

Her voice was raw and she could not open her jaw wide enough to say the word fully but he heard it all the same and for a moment the relief that swept through him almost brought him to his knees. He did not realize until she spoke that he had thought she was dead, that some part of him was imagining a world without his daughter in it–Mary, whom he had always loved even when he hated her. And had he told her enough? Though the words often stuck in his throat, had he said, _I love you, even when I don't like you_? She raised a trembling hand and pointed towards the stairs, very clearly articulating that he should take Gracie upstairs, and then she put that same hand on her stomach, very clearly articulating that she needed a doctor, because of course she needed a doctor. When he saw the effort it took for her to swallow, he realized how much it must hurt to speak.

_He took her voice, the bastard. He tried to take her voice. He tried to take her face._

And Robert knew he could kill.

His heart was breaking. He could feel it physically. And yet he could not feel it. He could not feel anything. Even his anger was encrusted in ice because he was holding his granddaughter in his arms, Gracie, who still believed in fairy tales and his daughter, Mary, who knew the truth–every fairy tale has a villain, a giant for Jack to conquer–was imploring him to take care of Gracie and the child she carried. The children had to be in important. Especially now, when he had so often made Mary unimportant. So he brought Gracie upstairs and tucked her into her crib and shushed her gently back to sleep when she stirred. Then he went to Mary. She flinched when he tried to stroke her hair. "_Papa_," she repeated, again not moving her jaw or opening her mouth, a whispered hiss. "Matthew. The baby. Doctor. Now." He nodded, though only a slit of one of her brown eyes was visible to him. "And Baby," she continued.

He was already standing. "Right. The baby. Don't worry; everything is going to be all right."

_Everything was not all right._

He lied to her because that's what fathers do when their daughters ask them if it is a safe world, a good world, a kind world. He lied because he loved her and yet he knew that she had been through this once before and that it would not be all right. He could not know that his own mother had lied in the same way. And he could not know that this time, though it was struggle, Mary kept her eyes open instead of closed.

She struggled to get the words out, struggled to shake her head. Everything was a struggle. "No, Dog Baby. She saved us. You have to promise," she hissed out a wince. "You have to promise that you'll take care of her and make sure she is all right."

"Mary, obviously, yes but the priority is–"

She reached out and tried to grip his hand but she failed and her hand slipped from his wrist. "She saved me," she repeated before losing consciousness again, a mercy against the pain. Only then did Robert lay his hand on her hair, just for half a second, before making his way quickly to the telephone.

* * *

><p>Mary woke with panic crawling up her throat, her hands reaching for her stomach. And then she felt Matthew's lips in her hair, as soft as his whisper, "It's all right. You're safe." He always knew how to touch her without hurting her. He always knew. She sagged against him. She knew that she could, that his arms would come around her and he would hold her. Unlike the time in the small library, she did not flinch from his touch. But of course, there was still pain and she winced.<p>

"They can't give you anything too strong because of the baby. I'm sorry–" His voice broke. Mary would never tell him that his pain only multiplied her own. She wondered if loving someone meant taking on their pain and thought that perhaps that was part of it and Matthew...God, Matthew had taken on so much pain that did not even belong to him. As if he could read her thoughts, he went on in a hushed and anguished whisper: "If I could take the pain away from you, I would. Mary, God..."

She felt his arms tighten gently around her, his cheek to the top of her head, and it only made her feel safer. "The baby?" she asked, though it hurt to move her mouth. Not as much before but it still was painful, physically, but the question was hard enough in and of itself.

For a moment, his arms tightened around her again and then unclenched. Tenderly, he took her battered, bruised, swollen face in his hands. She did not realize she was weeping until she saw her own reflection in his tear-filled eyes. She did not recognize herself and perhaps she would have felt unmoored but she saw clearly by the look in his eyes that Matthew recognized her and that was enough. "Doctor George says there is a heartbeat. He says...you'll have to be in bed until she comes."

"He," she replied automatically, but neither of them laughed.

"Mary," his voice broke again. "What can I do?"

"Who is with Gracie?" she asked, leaning her forehead into his arm.

"Sybil," he explained. "All the Bransons are staying over with Mother to distract Gracie...At Crawley House...I knew we would want her routine disturbed as little as possible." Mary squeezed his hand. She loved him. She loved him so much.

"Baby?" Mary asked.

"Doctor George said that there is a heartbeat and that everything should be..."

She stopped him with a simple press of her fingertips against his wrist. "No. Baby, the dog. You asked what you could do for me. I want to hold Gracie but I don't want her to see me like this. I would very much like Baby to share this bed with me."

"Oh, Mary," the anguish in his voice released a wail from Mary, a very real wail that in another time or place would remind them of their daughter.

"She saved _us_, Matthew!"

"After you were safe, after we knew that you and the baby were safe, your father..." Matthew paused and took a deep breath. "He accosted Doctor George. He screamed at him that he _would_ fix the dog and when Doctor George explained he wasn't a veterinarian, your father said he must...he must fix her...Robert was holding her out to him...They were barely able to keep him out of the operating room but...he kept saying that you had asked him to take care of Baby. He hasn't...He hasn't left his seat near the doors..."

"Matthew," Mary whimpered. "Where is Baby?"

His answer was completely unexpected. Mary was sure the dog had died. Wasn't that how it worked? Baby died in her place. And yet..."Doctor George is in surgery with her now but...Mary, please...You have to understand she was quite injured and that..."

"_You_ have to understand," Mary replied shakily, lifting one of his hands to kiss, "that I would not be here right now without that dog, Matthew, and neither would our baby. He would have killed us." She repeated the haunting words. Of course, it still hurt to talk but these words were so very important. They were more important than talking about the villain of this story. That would have to come later. "He would have _killed_ us."

"Mary," he begged. He would never be able to put into words what the telephone call from her father had felt like, and seeing her so beaten, so still. It reminded him of before. How could it not? But now that she was awake he recognized his wife, her stubbornness, even to keep her swollen eyes open, to push out words over a dog, to accept his embrace. This was not the small library. "Please, try to be calm. For the baby."

"I was so worried before," she wept. "I was worried: _will Baby be safe around the baby? Will she hurt him on accident or on purpose? What will Baby do with a baby? _Do you know how stupid those questions sound right now?" she sputtered."_She killed herself for us_."

He held her as she wept. What else could he do?

And she held on. Because what else could she do?

* * *

><p><em>AN: It is short but hopefully you will understand why in the NEXT chapter. When I write the next chapter. Also, I am very aware that there are questions NOT answered in this chapter. But Lady Mary has priorities, okay? And in my opinion they say a lot about where she is at in life, even after the beating she took. Review away..._


	55. Chapter 55

_A/N: I am so sorry that this has taken so long for me to write. It is not cool. I promise that you will never wait that long for a chapter again. But the thing is that this is the penultimate chapter, second to last, and then epilogue. I know I've done you a disservice by waiting this long to write (major transition happening in my life, make that transitions) but still...IF you have read this story, can you please let us know what you think? If you have been reviewing all along, thank you! You are the best. For the silent ones, I get that too. I have been known not to comment. But for these last two (plus an epilogue) chapters, will you please say hello? I must thank **Faeyero**, for her ceaseless efforts and always pushing me farther than I think I can go. Also PS, it has been so long you might want to read the last chapter first._

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><p>Chapter Fifty Five<p>

Sensations woke Mary slowly–the weight of the sheet against her skin, her own eyelashes flickering, the small sting of antiseptic in her nose, a hand lightly holding her own, and the whispers of what even her sleep-addled, medicated brain recognized as the semi-hushed gossip of nurses, thin yet layered, like gauze wrapped around a wound again and again.

"They're saying he was shot..."

"...vicious man..."

"...in the stomach, too..."

"Hideous, really..."

Mary strained her ears to hear more, to hear who had been shot and who had been doing the shooting, but she must have moved slightly, her legs stirring against the sheets, hissing like snakes, because the person holding her hand cleared his throat: "Good morning, Mary." His voice was tired, crusted with lack of sleep, Irish and well loved. His voice was the one to tell her that she was an aunt to a baby named for her. His voice was that of a brother's.

She opened her eyes; or rather, she opened the eye that was not swollen and battered shut. For a moment, even knowing whose hand she held, she was surprised to see Tom and not Matthew, but she remembered asking her husband, begging him to be there when Gracie woke up, and when he'd opened his mouth–whether to agree or disagree, it hadn't mattered–Mary had begun to cry because something should be, _needed_ to be normal for their little girl. Didn't he understand? He'd said he did. _I do, I do. I'll just stay here until you sleep. _And his hand had stroked her hair back from her battered, tearstained face, and she had not bothered to blow her nose, she'd only curved her head head into his palm and cried some more knowing she should feel lucky to be alive but instead grieving that she would not rock her little girl to sleep that night, for many nights perhaps, not until her face was somewhat healed. There had been no arguing after that, just her own guilt, and the scratchiness of his unshaven cheek against her cheek, while they both waited for her to sleep.

Still, she hadn't expected Tom to be there in his place this morning, holding her hand in his stead when she woke. Though she should have expected _someone,_ because Matthew never left her alone.

He never did.

As if Tom knew exactly what she was thinking, he cleared his throat again and awkwardly let go of her hand. "He didn't want you to be alone when you woke," Tom explained gently. "Sybil wanted to be here...but she and Maggie are a bit tied together since she's Maggie's food source and all..." The bubble of laughter hurt Mary's face. The shaft of sunlight through the curtains made her wince. "I promise I wasn't taking any liberties holding your hand while you slept...I only wanted you to know you weren't alone." _I only wanted you to know..._

She felt the babe move, struggle in the confined space of her womb.

_I'm never alone._

Mary smiled. For a moment, she forgot how she must look, all black and blue, battered and bruised. She forgot that she was supposed to be broken and sad. For a moment, she felt a keen regret that stretched her wide until there was nothing left but joy. She remembered the car ride, only Mary and Edith, to stop the marriage in Scotland. The countless talks where she begged Sybil to consider what she was doing–she remembered those too. _I suppose you think you can talk her out of it, _he'd said. And she had nodded, so confident–and she had failed so completely, and she had never been so happy to fail at something as she was at this moment, looking at the Irishman her sister had decided to marry, the Irishman her sister had not only fallen in love with but had been brave enough to marry. "I'm so sorry for ever thinking you weren't good enough for Sybil," she whispered. Hearing her own voice hurt, as if her vocal cords had been dragged along gravel, but some things had to be said. Some things were worth saying.

His grin may have been a bit forced (no one could deny that this situation was beyond their worst imaginings) but the fact that he tried helped Mary feel more like herself, helped more than he would ever know. "I would take this opportunity to say 'I told you so,' but you seem sorry enough about it."

"Is there any news about Baby?" Mary asked. Pain was returning, to her cheek (which Dr. George worried might be fractured) and the worst of her black eyes, the one that she could not yet open. She knew it would only grow worse if she didn't ask for medicine, but she wanted to wait as long as long as she could stand. Though she trusted Dr. George, even though he claimed things would be fine with this dosage of medicine...how many things could go wrong before things went _truly _wrong, before something happened that could not be undone?

How many times could things go wrong before they went _terribly_ wrong?

"She made it through surgery," Tom explained slowly. "Dr. George says her hip is shattered. Your father has been on the phone trying to find the best veterinarian to fix her and fought with Dr. Clarkson to keep her in a hospital bed." He smiled wanly. "Your mother...is sedated. She became a bit..." Tom's face twisted into an unreadable expression, "unglued after..."

"Unglued?" Mary tried to raise her eyebrow but ended up wincing instead. "I can only imagine. And Granny?"

He coughed. "Well, you know your Granny, tough as nails, she is." Mary was not so addled, not so medicated to miss that he did not answer the question.

"And Sir Richard?" Though everything remained a bit fuzzy, from the trauma and the medication, she wasn't an idiot. She'd purposely saved the villain in the story for last because she wanted a straight answer and the only way she would get one from anyone who loved her, from anyone who did not want to hurt her further, would be with the tactic of surprise.

Tom began to choke.

"Tom, I demand a straight answer." The intensity of her tone demanded it, but the weakness of her voice, how she lay prone, left the choice in Tom's hands. She was not Lady Mary, standing tall, ramrod straight, her eyebrow raised. They both knew it; they were both so keenly aware of it that Tom did not know how to be merciful in such an instance.

"Aye, you demand it." He bent his shaking head and she saw his hair was a mess from lack of sleep due to his vigil over her. "You Crawley women are full of demands. And wily too, saving that question for last. Don't think I didn't notice that. Don't think I'm not used to that strategy, having married your sister. _Where's the milk and where's the eggs; did you remember the bread and what if we went to Downton for the summer?_" He continued to shake his head.

"But you haven't answered," Mary insisted, though the intensity of her pain continued to creep upwards. Her eyes flickered. Everything hurt. "I heard the nurses talking. They were saying...Is he dead? How?...Who?"

_He can't be. Can he? Can he _really _die?_

"Just calm down," he hissed at her. "You've got to stay calm for the baby, all right?"

"I'll calm down once you tell me," she hissed back at him, which she found was actually easier than speaking normally due to the blows to her jaw. The blows. The way he hit her. The jarring slaps.

_Could he really be dead?_

"Well, that's just it. Everyone is worried that once you hear, you won't _be_ calm..." Tom explained.

"Oh, I see," she retorted, though it took a bit of effort to speak with such authority. "Has there been a symposium on the subject?"

"Well, what would you call it when your family closes ranks?" He lifted his hands and pulled at his hair then sighed. "All right. Okay. But you have to promise, you have to absolutely promise–"

"Do you know me at all? Do I have to regale you with how I have been schooled in the art of controlling one's emotions? Now tell me, Tom," she begged at last. "Is he dead?" She wasn't ashamed of the hope in her voice but she couldn't keep the fear out of it when she asked, "_Who?_" and prayed it was no one she loved.

"It was his wife," Tom told her levelly. "His wife shot the bastard in the belly."

* * *

><p>His hand, his hand...<p>

His hand was holding his bloody heart. He felt it thumping, he felt it throbbing in his hand. It must be his heart, the blood and the gore. Someone must have pulled his heart from his chest.

It could only be one person. There was only one person who could wreak that kind of damage on a man. And just as he turned to go, from his own door at Haxby back to Crawley House, to kill the _bitch_ who had reached inside his chest and handed him his own heart, beams of light hit his hand and he realized he was not holding his heart but that it was his _hand_...

Bloody, torn...Gone?

He could not look long enough to count fingers.

His scream was that of a wounded animal, and inside his own house his servants scattered as they were prone to do when they heard their master in such a state. When he opened the door and screamed again, there was no one there but the echo of his own voice, his own screams, the blood dripping onto the marble floor. Red on white. Red on white. His eyeballs felt as if they were bulging out of their sockets.

He screamed for his wife.

Or he screamed for Mary.

He could not be sure which.

In her bedroom, his wife knuckled the sheets. She'd been sick all day and now she could hear her husband screaming and she closed her eyes and prayed to whatever God was listening that some servant would stop him, would hit him over the head with a cast iron pot and save her...but she knew they wouldn't. They scattered like ants whenever he was like this; they kept to themselves and found things to do far from him and if they heard her scream they waited an hour to find her–her lady's maid first to the scene after sixty quiet minutes–to see if she was alive. And she couldn't blame them. Not really. Everyone just wanted to live during his rages. Everyone wanted to make it out alive.

She was afraid now, afraid more than she could say that _they _would not make it out alive–she and the baby. But when she saw him, he was more than a monster, more than a roaring mouth, she saw the bloody hand that did not resemble a hand and went to him, screaming a bit herself, and sat him in her place on the bed.

"Oh, darling, darling..." she whimpered for him. She loved him. That was the problem. Later, she would remember that one weakness and hate herself for it. She would never forgive herself for that because with that stump he smacked her as hard as he possibly could. She felt his blood on her face, his own scream of pain at the impact. She fell back against the nightstand and hit her head so hard she fell on her side, on the side of her belly. And when the dizziness eased, she felt a cramping in her belly. Oh, god, a horrible cramping in her belly.

He was not the only one bleeding now.

Perhaps that was what he had wanted all along.

That's what she thought as she grappled for the silk-lined drawer, even as the cramping intensified. She hated him. She hated him. Of the three of them, one of them should make it out alive and _it would not be him. _She would not let it be.

_Oh, darling, darling..._

_You've finally seen me bleed the way you've wanted to all along._

"Marianne," he whispered when he saw...when he saw what she would do. "Marianne, calm down. My hand. Call the doctor."

The gun was her own. The best money could buy. It was made of mother of pearl. It fit her hands perfectly well and when she pressed the trigger, it worked perfectly well. She fell back from the force of it. How strong, how violent guns could be.

They were both bleeding like pigs stuck in the belly–the both of them. Finally, they were evenly matched, evenly wounded.

She could have called for the servants but even the boom of the gun wasn't enough to have them running in to see what the master or mistress had done to one another. So she waited, miscarrying on the floor of their bedroom, as the father of the baby who was not to be looked at her with an open mouth and unsaid pleas and silently begged for mercy that she could not give, even if she had wanted to.

She'd shot him in the belly.

There was no hope for him now.

_Oh, darling, darling..._

_Darling..._

* * *

><p>Marianne woke from her dream, her whole body convulsing. She knew it wasn't a dream so much as a replay of the previous night. She knew she was in the hospital. She knew her baby was dead. She knew she'd killed her husband.<p>

Moreover, and startling in its own right, she knew that the Dowager Countess had stayed with her through the night, had kept the police from questioning her, had kept the nurses from gossiping. The old woman had demanded Marianne be given something for the pain and the doctor had listened because she was the type of woman people listened to, the type of woman even men listened to.

She was still here, sitting beside Marianne's bed. "Good morning," the Dowager Countess said quietly. "The police are waiting to speak to you."

Marianne closed her eyes. So it was over. She had no baby and they would put her in jail for killing her husband. Had it been in cold blood? She hadn't planned it. But she couldn't say whether her life had been in danger...not hers but their child's...

The older woman continued, in a firm and quiet voice. "They have many questions for you. And I've kept them from you as long as I could. I ask that you answer only one of my questions: what do you want?"

Marianne startled and pulled the covers up to her chin.

_What do you want?_

"Do you want a life?" The old woman continued. "Do you want to heal? You know what to say if that's what you want."

"It would be a lie," she whispered. "I was angry, so angry at him, for causing the miscarriage–"

"Marianne," the Dowager Countess interrupted sharply. "What do you want?"

The word bubbled out in a whisper from a woman battle worn and scarred. "Safe." She wet her lips. "I want to be safe."

The old woman nodded. Her eyes seemed wet with pity. "You want to live. So you will _not _tell the police, as you have told me, several times, that you had time to think about shooting that...bastard of a man. You will not tell them that you were enraged over knowing you were losing the baby. You will tell them he attacked you, as he attacked others. You will tell them he has attacked you habitually, as he has attacked others. You will tell them there was a struggle. He never calmed down and asked you to call the doctor. He never spoke, he only screamed. It is all very confusing. You don't even remember what happened. It is all very confusing." Lady Grantham took Marianne's chin in her hands. Her fingers were not gentle but they were not unkind either. "You don't even remember what happened, do you?"

"No," Marianne whispered, a single tear dripping from her eye. "I want to live."

"You want to live," the Dowager Countess repeated as she let go of Marianne's face and walked to the door. "I've kept them at bay for as long as I can. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Marianne replied, sitting up a bit straighter in bed. "I'm ready."

_I am ready._

* * *

><p>Mary did not cry when Tom told her the story. She did not cry when Granny came to sit with her and stroked her hand, so much like the first time when Granny had lied and told her it was all over. Now, there was no need for lies. It <em>was <em>all over. And yet, Granny knew better to say so because Granny knew what Mary knew–_you cannot kill a memory. _Still, neither Mary nor Granny cried. And when Doctor George heard the baby's heartbeat again, alive and well, Mary did not cry in relief then either, though she wanted to. She felt like a balloon filled with water and that if the first tear dropped, she would burst and never stop. She would cry a river before they found a way to plug the leaks in her eyes. She would drown herself. And even knowing this with such certainty, she had no idea what she could cry over. She was alive. Her children were well. Her family was safe. And the villain was dead. She felt relief, the buoyant feeling of relief, and yet there was a killing sort of dread that weighed her down.

If throughout the day, she remembered her words to her own husband: _you cannot kill a memory, _she turned away from them. She asked Granny to tell her something happy and Granny did. "Edith's pregnant," she told Mary at one point. "She wanted to be the one to tell you but I know she will forgive me under the circumstances."

"Oh, Edith," Mary breathed and she smiled. But she did not cry. "Do you know, I just _know _it will be all right for her this time?"

"I think so too," Granny replied conspiratorially.

But still, there was the dead baby that would never go away for Edith. Edith would never forget, even holding this live baby in several months time, the dead one she had given birth to months before. Mary wanted to cry then, thinking of that, but she turned away from the tears again. "Tell me something else," she asked Granny.

"The veterinarian says he can save Baby's leg," Granny replied softly. "He says she may walk with a limp but he's confident that she'll live and walk, even if it's a hobble."

"That's wonderful," Mary replied, but she wanted to cry again. Poor Baby with a limp. Poor Baby with a constant reminder of what she'd sacrificed for the family. "I'm afraid I'm not good company today, Granny."

Granny laughed, breathlessly, in a way that made it clear she, too, was holding in tears. "Oh, Mary," she sighed. "If there was a mirror in this place you would realize you'd just uttered the grandest understatement of all time."

They laughed together some more. They wanted to laugh until they cried, but both of them were very aware how easy happy tears could turn sad–a flick of a switch, a lightening strike and all that laughter would be for naught. Still, Granny took Mary's hand in her own and kissed it, pressed it to her cheek. "Don't tell the others, but you have always been my favorite," Granny whispered.

"Why?" Mary asked, in awe at the admission.

Granny set Mary's hand down and pulled the sheets until they settled appropriately around her granddaughter. "Because you are the most like me, of course."

* * *

><p>When Matthew walked in, just as the sun was setting early in wintertime, his hair brightened by the reds and oranges behind him at the window, Mary nearly began to cry, and yet she was able to close her mouth and smile. Still, his first words could have easily brought on the first tears as well: "Gracie went right down for her nap. Her and Robbie both. And Uncle Tom has promised to build a fort for them when they wake up."<p>

Mary swallowed her tears. She thought of Gracie's knees, how some days after crawling around on the carpet and jumping and dancing until she fell, Mary would press a kiss to each knee, a bit red from too much fun. "These are Mama's knees," she would say and Gracie would curl into her with laughter. "No," she would giggle. "Papa's!" Mary's fingers would tickle her girl mercilessly until she cried out and surrendered, "Mama! Mama's knees!"

Matthew pressed his lips to Mary's forehead, his fingers gentle on her neck. He kept his lips to her skin for a second, a moment longer than he normally would. She could feel all the emotion he held back, pent up inside of him, in the delicacy, the careful kiss to her forehead. She leaned into his arm.

"I love you," she murmured because she did, so very much.

Granny looked away as if she had speck of dust in her eye and stood up. "Well, I'm a bit tired myself. Perhaps I'll nap with the children. I'll see you tomorrow–" she paused and took Mary's hand as she had in the small library, as she had earlier today, "I'll see you tomorrow, my darling girl." And then Granny was off, cackling at Doctor Clarkson to cover any emotionality.

Matthew's fingers stroked Mary's neck–a safe place, at least on the right side, unbruised and unmarred. But before he could take Granny's seat, Mary turned to him, her face to his stomach, her fingers grasping beneath his jacket to his shirt, the forehead he'd just kissed touching the crispness of his shirt. "I know I said I wanted you to be with Gracie today," she said, her words muffled against his clothing, "And I did. But I'm so glad you're here now. So glad."

He bent, stooped so she could keep her head where it was and he could press his lips to her hair. He stood like that, uncomfortable and awkward, his hand on her neck, his lips, his face in her hair, bowed as if he might break, as if he might cry. But it seemed they'd formed a bargain, the two of them, somewhere along the way, not to cry together. Or perhaps the bargain was: if we cry, it will be together.

"Gracie asked for you," he murmured into her hair. "When I told her you would be back soon, she arched an eyebrow at me and just said _Baby? _as if to say, this sibling business requires a certain amount of work that no one ever asked me about." He paused, and they both laughed together, though their pose was not one of laughter but of desperation. "She's a bit sad that Baby's at the doctor but having both of her cousins stay with her has buoyed her spirits."

"I'll bet," Mary whispered. Matthew could feel the heat of her words through his shirt at his belly button. "I don't want her to see me, Matthew. I just–"

"Mary." His hands left her neck to gently tangle in her hair as he pulled her face and kneeled in front of her.

Mary shook her head. "I don't want to scare her. I look horrid. It will only scare her."

"Mary," he repeated, shaking his head along with her.

"And maybe it's wrong and I know he's dead. Dead. But I don't want her knowing that this can happen to a person, that a man can come into your home, and just, and–" she squeezed her eyes shut against the tears. "She's too young to know that things like this can happen, that they can just–"

"All right," he soothed, sitting and scooting the chair nearer her bedside. He touched his forehead to hers. He needed to touch her, all the time, now. "Oh, god, Mary..."

It was no one's fault, the crying. And since it was the two of them, in a room, alone, there was no need for blame for recriminations. Neither felt weakened by the tears or stupid for shedding them. Each cried soundlessly, holding onto the other, shaking. They held one another up.

For half a second, just half a second, Mary thought this was what marriage was, loneliness and fear and love shared between two people, with no one else to see but the only other person who know your fears and secrets and loved you just the same.

They held one another up.

* * *

><p>She insisted he lie with her, which was truly ridiculous, on the narrow hospital bed, with her less-than-narrow stomach. He clung to her and they laughed when she told him it was only because she weighed as much as an anchor, and there would be no way for him to fall off the bed with his arms around her.<p>

They laughed.

Half his body was off the side of the bed but he promised her he didn't care, and when she asked him again, he nosed his face into her hair and said, "Well, perhaps a little..." and they both laughed again, his breath puffing out against her skin. She held him as tightly to her body as she could. She'd asked him to lie with her but really she needed him to be that close, just for tonight, if only for tonight, even if it was ridiculous. And not only did he seem to know that but he seemed to need it too, just for tonight, if only for tonight.

"It's almost Christmas," he murmured drowsily against her neck.

"It's snowing," she replied, looking out the window with her one good eye, and stroking the hair against the back of his neck. "I'd forgotten it was winter. I'd forgotten it was almost Christmas."

"Did you forget you were pregnant?" he asked, his breath against her skin, laughing before he finished the sentence, before she pinched his side.

"I never forget I'm pregnant," she sighed dramatically, pushing her stomach against his so that they laughed some more. "Is it wrong that we're laughing?"

"No," he whispered and kissed her neck. "No, it's not."

* * *

><p>Something woke him. For a moment, he thought he was falling off the bed, but he was anchored firmly by the arms of his wife. Yet, something had awakened him. There was a rippling against his belly. But it was not his belly, it was Mary's. It wasn't the usual movements of the baby, either. It was almost as if her belly was...contracting...<p>

"Mary?" he asked, in the darkness of the hospital room.

"Hmm?"

"Mary," he shook her gently, to wake her up. If ever there was a woman to sleep through labor...Could it be labor? "Mary!" Suddenly, he could feel something wet between them.

Shock kept him quiet. But her sleepy voice rose in the darkness, "D'you know, Matthew, I think my water broke?"

* * *

><p><em>AN: I know you guys have waited for this chapter figuratively and literally for a long time. So please, if you have been with us this whole while or jumped on board, or read the whole thing three days ago, give us your input._


	56. Chapter 56

_A/N: I am sorry for the wait. I swear I do not do it on purpose. It just happens to be one of the more busy times of my life and Faeyero's life as well. Speaking of Faeyero, as always, I am in her debt for her time and dedication to a story that's really become a beastly long thing. I don't think she knew what she was taking on ;) (to be fair, I did not either). There is still more story to tell and I want to promise you that you won't wait long but I can only say that we will do our best as we are just as eager to finish the *birthing* process of _Grace._ I so badly want these last chapters to pay homage to so many parts and characters of this story so if this seems a bit like a roller coaster, there is always a method to my madness. Thank you for all the comments and the dedication and support even with the gaps in updating. I appreciate it more than I could ever say._

* * *

><p>Chapter Fifty Six<p>

Matthew had always promised himself that when the time came for the baby to be born, he would remain stalwart and calm, the eye of the hurricane. He would not be anxious or nervous and he would certainly not be hysterical or frightened. He would be the anchor, sound support in the face of it. That's how he'd imagined it.

He had not imagined that he–not Mary–would be the first to feel any sort of contraction, even the most mild one. And that upon rousing her (which even in the beginnings of labor would prove difficult) she would say, _d'you know, Matthew, I think my water broke? _and that her water would _break _on him as well as her. He did not imagine bundling her up and setting her in a wheelchair while he wore a wet pair of trousers. No, in none of his imaginings had he anticipated wearing wet trousers.

Of course, there was more. Even with her added girth, Mary was heartbreaking in her fragility, the bitter brutality of her face juxtaposed with the narrowness of her wrists, the welt on her slender neck. He had not imagined that either, that even as his child was anxious to be born, he was dreaming of killing a dead man for the horrors done to his family, that Carlisle could be a specter during this birth, just as he had been during Gracie's. In all of his imaginings, there were not bruises and Mary's winces came from their child's eagerness to enter the world, not the after effects of Carlisle's fists.

He wanted to pull his hair out and scream. He wanted to run around shouting for a telephone. He wanted to get Dr. Clarkson and he really wanted it to stop slowly and peacefully snowing, as if they were in a picturesque snow globe. The snow, and the way it was falling, languidly almost, made him even more anxious because it certainly did not match his mood nor his feelings on the subject of: _d'you know, Matthew, I think my water broke?_

Mary, on the other hand, rubbed the back of her nose with her hand, winced at a bit of pain and looked up at him fuzzily, like an owl, as she always did when she woke from sleep. He felt as if there was some inadvertent payback for all of those months ago when he'd sleepily murmured into her throat: _d'you think we've made a baby? _For a moment she looked up at him, and then repeated her sleepy sentiments: _d'you know, I think I'm in labor, Matthew, darling._

She smiled at him, her sleepy smile, that once upon a time would have meant _come back to bed_. "Matthew, don't worry. It's going to be all right." Her certainty, much like the lazy snow, only addled his nerves more.

"I'm not worried," he retorted defensively. He _hated _the way the snow was lazily falling from the black sky.

"You are," she took his hand. "But it's all right. Have the night nurse call Doctor George and a car to take us to the Abbey."

"The Abbey?" he cried. "We are in a hospital! Why would we go to the Abbey?"

She widened her eyes, forcing the sleep out of them. She was starting to feel an ache in her back; she wondered how much the medicine for the bones in her face was dulling the labor pains. "Because we decided–remember?–a long while ago, that we were going to have the baby at the Abbey."

"But that was before," he murmured without thinking. "_Before_..."

"He's gone, Matthew." She gripped his hand now. "He's gone and I don't want him affecting any other part of our lives. I don't want him touching anything else. _We _decide where our baby will be born."

"We?" Matthew asked, looking down at the stubborn tilt of her jaw. In that moment, he felt using the word _we _to describe such a decision was a bit overzealous of her. "Perhaps it would be safer..."

"We've been given a new beginning," she replied. "It's not perfect and it's not a fairytale and you can't kill a memory. So I want to make one instead. I don't want to think of that house as the place where _it _happened. I want to think of that house as the place where our child was born."

"Mary...I just..."

"Did you hear me when I told you my water broke?" she laughed, raising her eyebrow. "Are we really going to argue about this? _Now? _It's not really fair since if you keep this going long enough, you'll win by default."

"We're here, in a hospital, Mary..." he began again, glancing over his shoulder, out the window at the damn snow that continued to...just...fall.

"Matthew," she repeated, with a certainty that he envied. "Someday, you and I will live at that house. It will be where our family lives. The best way I know how to combat a difficult memory is to force something beautiful in its place. I want this baby born in the house where we will grow old, Matthew. I want to be able to say that all of our children but Grace were born there. And you know, it will mean the world to Papa."

"I'm not concerned about your father at this exact moment," Matthew replied, holding her hand in both of his. "I'm concerned for you and for the baby."

"Me too," she smiled at him, leaning forward for a kiss so light it could have been a dream. "I want to have this baby in the house I was born in, the house I grew up in, the house we fell in love in. It's also the house where...well, I won't say it. But I want it to be the house where our child is born. It's one more important, beautiful memory to outweigh the bad."

"It's very important to you," Matthew realized, his brain dulled by the fact that the the moment they had been waiting upon for nine months was happening _now, _and that she was so clear-headed while he remained muddled. He had no experience to call upon; he had never done this before. But before he met Gracie, he had never been a father before.

"Yes," Mary stated, smiling slowly, releasing his hands. She kissed him more firmly, reading every thought in his head, so sure of the man she had chosen. "Call for the car."

As soon as she was bundled into the car, just after Matthew had threatened the driver over the necessity of driving quickly and cautiously, Mary's hand flew to his arm. "Are you in a lot of pain?" he asked, his face a picture of concern.

"No," she shook her head as if labor pains were the furthest thing from her mind. "I just realized, I have to see Gracie."

Matthew felt as if he were in a play and two minutes behind everyone else. He could not find his lines. "But you said that you couldn't see her until your face...that you wanted..." It didn't help that he felt as if he was dodging bullets with the subjects they were discussing–labor, the brutality of her face–none of it was easy to talk about. And yet, here they were. In labor, Mary's face bruised... "That isn't to say that you don't look beautiful–"

Mary laughed but turned serious quickly. "You are right. I did want that. But imagine it. The next time I see Grace, I'll be holding her sibling. Can you imagine introducing her to the baby and my bruised face in the same instant? Don't you think that may be too much for her?"

"I–" He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He wanted to do everything and nothing at the same time. He wanted to fix a situation that could not be fixed. "I...I don't know, Mary. I see your point. But...I suppose we can do that but..."

Mary caressed one of his cheeks with her cold hands. _Poor Matthew, _she thought. "Don't worry, darling. Everything is going to be all right." She watched his eyes, his careful eyes, watch her face and expression. After everything that had happened, it was difficult to believe the impossible. And yet, Mary knew it would be all right. And at the the same time, she saw her own certainty make her husband more edgy, as if he couldn't possibly trust that after all of this...this one thing could be perfect. But Mary knew what Matthew did not. Mary knew that in the midst of the worst, most unbelievable circumstances a doctor could lay a baby on her breasts, a baby she'd never seen face to face before, and her entire world could click into place so perfectly that nothing else, not even those outrageously unbelievable circumstances, mattered. Nothing mattered but that baby's skin on hers.

Which was why, though Matthew didn't understand it (though he soon would), Mary had to see that first baby, that first grace, who had been laid on her breast two years ago, a life changer if she ever knew one.

* * *

><p>It felt a bit like espionage, sneaking into Gracie's room, as Matthew briefed a sleepy Tom and excited Sybil. The window let in a bit of moonlight and the snow falling reminded Mary of her first winter with Gracie in New York, just the two of them, snuggled into the brownstone with no one to talk to but her little girl and Granny on pieces of paper. Now here they were, in Crawley House...her girl was growing up so quickly and everything was changing around them, quite literally.<p>

But some things would never change.

Even with her belly, she could lift the slender Gracie from her crib, though she needed a bit of help. "Gracie," she whispered to her firstborn, her eldest child. Her baby–no, her girl–opened her eyes, blinking slowly and with confusion and yet, noting it was her mother, lifting her arms automatically, propelling her body forward into Mary's arms.

"There's my darling girl," Mary whispered, pressing a kiss to the curly-haired child, and walking to the rocking chair.

Yes, some things would not change, could not change. No matter what happened. No matter where in the world they happened to be.

They rocked, as they had rocked in New York and then here, in this house. They rocked, as they had before Richard Carlisle had been reintroduced to their lives, before he had hurt Mary, before he had died. And Mary knew they would rock always, no matter how big Gracie grew, even if Gracie sat in the chair alone, knobby knees and elbows, talking of the boys she liked while Mary sat on the floor, listening to her daughter's voice and the creaking of the rocking chair. Always the creaking. The creaking.

Gracie woke like her mother, slowly and in no rush. She lifted a hand to trace the purple over her mother's cheek, her touch intuitively light. "Ow?" Gracie asked in a whisper. It felt like a time to whisper; even the little girl could feel the sacredness of it.

"Yes," Mary affirmed. "Mama had an accident. And it looks very bad. But it isn't. I will look like your old mama again soon."

Gracie nodded, cuddling her head against her mother's breast. She'd missed her Mama. Pointing to her own knee, she looked up at her mother. "Ow," she explained.

"Oh?" Mary asked with concern, lifting away clothes to see the unmarked skin of Gracie's knee. She was relieved but concern still laced her voice. "Oh, did you get an owie too? What happened?"

"Rob," she whispered, but she was smiling. "Boosh."

"You and Rob were playing," Mary interpreted. "Here, let Mama fix it." She pressed her lips to Gracie's knee. "All better."

Gracie stretched to brush her tiny lips to her mother's cheek. Mary winced from the sweetness and the pain of it. And wasn't that the truth when it came to mothering–all the time, bruised face or not? "Better," Gracie whispered, settling down to cuddle into her mother's arms, safe, and whole–untouched by the horror of the situation. Mary felt a lump form in her throat, as they rocked, as Gracie hummed a little in her throat, as she usually did before sleep, as Mary realized that part of her job as Gracie's mother, one of her main priorities from the moment she'd found out she was pregnant, had been accomplished. Richard's vileness had never touched Gracie. What was one to do when one realized such monumental goal had been achieved?

Mary did not know what _one _did. She only knew what _she_ did.

She rocked her daughter to sleep.

She rocked.

Matthew watched from the doorway. Yes, there was a sense a sense of urgency inside of him (how could Mary _not _feel it...wasn't she the one supposed to be _feeling_ it?) and yet he could not begrudge the moment in front of him. In many ways, it reminded him of the first time he'd watched Mary rock Gracie to sleep. She'd been so much tinier then, with just as much personality but so few words to express it. He had already loved her by then, when she had lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him with tear-drenched eyes as if he could save her from something as dreadful as a nap. In that moment, he'd known, he'd always known, that he had promised to love her and save her from things much more dreadful than a nap.

And that first night, hearing Mary hum, and the creaking of the rocking chair (the very same), he had felt as if he belonged, as if he knew the tune but not the steps, and he had been unable to imagine his life anywhere but in the that room, watching the two greatest loves of his life rock in an old creaking chair.

"Papa!" Gracie whispered and reached out a hand so he kneeled, holding that tiny hand that had somehow grown so much since the first time he held it, as Mary rocked and their baby, their first baby fell into the contented, enchanted sleep that all loved children know.

"I'll put her up to bed," Matthew whispered at last. He noted the tears on Mary's lashes and wiped them gently with his fingers.

"It's just...I'm so happy," she murmured. "We are..." she kissed Gracie's forehead and then Matthew's too. "We are so lucky. So blessed."

"We are," he agreed. And it didn't seem too much to tell that bit of urgency to pipe down and rest for a moment, and remain, the three of them, battered but not beaten, broken but whole, in a room across the sea from where they had begun.

* * *

><p>It continued to snow and snow. And snow and snow. They could have been inside the snowglobe Matthew had imagined in the hospital.<p>

"I really do not like the idea of you going out in that," Sybil complained as she helped Mary into her coat. Matthew had slipped away for a new pair of trousers.

"It's not far at all, Sybil," Mary told her, taking her sister's face in her hands. "Not a bit."

"It was raining before," Sybil continued. "And the temperature dropped..."

"Once upon a time, I was the mother hen," Mary murmured. "And now look at you, trying to button my coat for me." It wasn't far from the truth; Sybil was indeed trying to stretch the strings of the button to fit Mary's girth.

"Much as I'd like your dream of having the baby at Downton to come true," Tom began, "I don't think it's wise. Not wise at all. There's a house here. And a bed. And two people with medical training."

Mary laughed. "Just because you delivered Robbie does not mean you have medical training, and if you think I'm letting my brother-in-law deliver my baby, you're stark raving mad."

He brushed a hand over his very bleary eyed face. "I wasn't talking about me but your sister and Isobel."

"I know who you were talking about," Mary laughed again. "And I know where I am having this baby–" Mary meant to laugh. Truly, she did. Instead, she doubled over from the wave of the contraction hitting her. Even as Sybil brought her over to the couch Mary was shutting her eyes against the pain and squeezing her sister's hand. "Oh, I really did forget how much this hurt," she wheezed.

"I'm sure the drugs for your face were helping some too," Sybil sympathized.

"Now that you mention it," Mary hissed through her teeth, "that's starting to get a bit more painful as we speak."

"Call the doctor, Tom," Sybil stated simply. "Tell him there has been a change of plans."

"But I want to have the baby–"

"The baby wants to be born here," Sybil interrupted. "Now I suppose you could compromise, since you want to have him or her at the Abbey, and have him or her in the car."

"Speaking on Matthew's behalf, I can predict that he would simply love that," Tom replied dryly. "Now can I please call Doctor George and tell him to redirect his course to Crawley House?"

"What about Crawley House?" Matthew asked as he hurried down the stairs. He pressed a kiss to Mary's head. "Gracie's completely asleep. I have new trousers. I'm ready to go."

Mary looked at him, biting her lips. "Perhaps...I was a bit...I mean to say..."

"For goodness sake, Mary," Sybil squealed a bit, forcing Mary to let out the breath she was holding. "Even Lady Mary Crawley cannot predict where and when you go into labor."

"I only wanted...I wanted..." Mary tried to breathe. It seemed everyone's hands were on her, touching and patting, both soothing and pulling. Suddenly she was crying and she was not sure why. "I wanted to have the baby at the big house and now–Oh! Stop, touching my shoulders like that, Matthew!"

"It isn't your fault, Mary," Tom said soothingly from a safe place across the room. "Babies come when they want to come. Believe me I know. And Crawley babies are predictably stubborn like their mothers."

"Oh, ha ha, Tom! I'm sure I will find that joke particularly funny later," Mary replied through clenched teeth.

Sybil rolled her eyes at her husband as he shrugged. "Let's get you up upstairs, Mary. And we'll wake Isobel while Tom calls the doctor and everything will be just fine."

_Stop saying that, _Mary wanted to shout and in that moment, standing in the room where she'd been beaten days before, she could only focus on her rippling belly, the pain in her back, and her beautiful birthing plan falling to pieces. Sir Richard Carlisle was the farthest thing from her mind. He was not even a part of her world.

It was shocking to find that if he put a bit of his back into it, Matthew could lift her. She pressed her face into his neck, comforted by his the smell and touch of his skin. "But this isn't how I wanted it," she cried a bit pathetically. "I had plans. I was going to handle everything calmly."

Matthew tipped his forehead to touch hers as he carefully traversed his way up the stairs. "It will be better," he whispered into the skin beneath her jaw. "When you're holding our baby, Gracie's brother or sister, it will be better."

"Brother," Mary murmured back to him, before taking her fingertips and leading his lips to hers.

"Watch, I don't drop you," Matthew whispered after a breath. "And I think you meant to say, 'sister.'"

"At least when this baby comes, we won't have to argue about the sex anymore. It will be plainly obvious that I was right all along," she teased, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Oh, even if you are right," Matthew conceded,"which we aren't sure of yet, we can argue about the next one," he added as he gently set her on their bed.

"If you say that to me while I am having a contraction, I might bite you." She raised her eyebrow at him.

He crouched beside her for a moment, took her face in his hands. "My brave girl." He paused and kissed her. "Now, mind you remember that even though we aren't at Downton Abbey, you're not alone this time. I want you to hold my hand and hold it tight."

She smiled. The steadiness of his love for her still had the ability to smooth out all the ripples of anxiety. "You might regret saying such a thing in an hour or two more."

He pushed back the wisps of hair from her brow, keeping his hand on the nape of her neck. "I don't think so, Mary. I just don't think I could regret anything right at this moment."

And when Mary leaned into him, she felt the same way.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I know, I know! Where is this baby? A boy? A girl? I know! I just wanted Carlisle completely and utterly vanquished by the time this baby comes, literally and figuratively hence the break in the story here. But get ready! As always, Faeyero and I appreciate all the feedback, especially as we our so very close to the finish line._


	57. Chapter 57

_A/N: First, I have to thank Faeyero and a special guest beta...she knows who she is. As always, Faeyero (and friend) were most helpful and encouraging. Secondly, thanks for all your comments. I have so many to catch up on. There will be a chapter 58 and then an epilogue so your chance to speak up is dwindling. Please let me (us) know what you think, if not now, then when?_

* * *

><p>Chapter Fifty Seven<p>

Like Matthew, in her head, Mary had created plans for the labor of this child. She knew Matthew wanted to be in the room, no matter how unfashionable it appeared. She wanted him there as well, because he deserved to know what it felt like to watch one of his children come into the world and because, of course, Matthew was the best support she knew, the first support she'd allowed in so many years, the only person she'd allowed herself to bend into and lean upon.

Yet Mary could remember parts of her labor with Gracie–hazy bits she tried to forget–and she knew she'd cursed the doctor more than once and screamed and wept. It had been painful. She'd never felt so alone as in those moments before she met her daughter in a bedroom she did not yet consider her own, with a doctor and his silent, judging eyes. _I cannot do this, _she remembered thinking.

But then.

The pit of loneliness was hard to remember when such a momentous occasion occurred so soon after–meeting her daughter for the first time, brushing the lightest kisses to the soft skin of her forehead, feeling Gracie's naked skin pressed to Mary's own naked collarbone, the solid feeling in her chest at holding such a fragile, needy thing in her arms, cuddled close as close could be and vowing, vowing with everything Mary had, that this child would know love without conditions. She had whispered against Gracie's skin, her lips moving in benediction: _I've been waiting forever to meet you. You are everything and more than I expected. You are mine and I am yours and I love you. Fiercely and completely._

_Already._

_When you've done nothing to earn my affection but simply _be.

Those bits of screaming and cursing were hazy when compared to meeting her daughter. Still, she refused to allow Doctor George or Matthew to see her like that. She could not scream at the doctor, curse, and weep. She had no excuse this time since this time, she was far from alone. She would have to be stalwart and strong, as quiet as possible. Mary could remember a tiny Sybil sneaking into Mary's bed when they were young, so young that Mary had had to pull Sybil by the arms up to the mattress as her youngest sister monkeyed her way up and under the sheets. Mary would press her finger to her lips and whisper, "You must be as quiet as a mouse, Sybil" and Sybil would reply, "Squeak!" before closing her eyes and falling asleep curved into Mary.

Now, Mary would need to be as quiet as a mouse, as calm as Matthew had been in the face of the latest (and last) of Richard's violent acts towards her. She could not worry her husband any more than she already had in the past nine months when it came to the trauma's induced by Richard. Somewhere inside of her a voice answered, new and tremulous, whispering: _That was not your fault. That was not your fault at all. _

But Mary could not heed it as she prepared to deliver her second child into the world. Matthew had watched her in pain. Worse than that, he had seen her ruined from the very first night in the small library in her ruined corset, bruised and bloodied–_and that was not your fault either, _the voice continued_._ Mary could not bear to show him any more pain, especially when the pain was joyful, such as this.

She could not allow Matthew to see pain when this time Doctor George would lay their baby on her breast and Mary and Matthew would both think: _We've been waiting forever to meet you. You are everything and more than we expected. You are ours and we are yours and we love you. Fiercely and completely._

_Already._

_When you've done nothing to earn our affection but simply _be.

But already things were falling apart. She was not at Downton Abbey but at Crawley House and Sybil was helping her take her coat off and murmuring soothing words as Mary breathed deeply and Matthew watched her. That was the thing about Matthew; he knew her so well. He could equate every blink of her eye with some emotion and usually he was right. She had to be strong. He could not know, he could not see however much it was starting to hurt.

_It was not your fault and there is no place for guilt in this room, _the new soft voice uttered inside her._._.

She told the brave voice, newly borne inside of her, to pipe down. Where was Doctor George?

As if on cue, a brisk knock interrupted Mary's thoughts just as Sybil helped her lie back against the pillows in her nightgown. "It's Tom," he said through the door, and Mary couldn't help but reach for Matthew's hand and think: _what could possibly go wrong _now?

"It's not appropriate, Tom," Sybil tsked and walked to the door where she could open it a few inches and confer with her husband, whispering, before she shut it soundly in his face.

She turned to face Matthew and Mary, who looked at her and waited expectantly. Sybil smiled and clasped her hands together in front of her. "It seems," she began, as her smile wobbled, "that Doctor George slipped on some ice after leaving Downton Abbey and has sustained some injuries..."

"You must be joking," Mary snorted, laying her head back against the pillows. Sybil could remember Mary using the same tone, the same words to speak to the various governesses. _Today we will learn how to accept an invitation to dance by a man in the formal French, _the governess might have said. And Mary with her plaited hair would throw her head back and roll her eyes, _You must be joking._

"I'm afraid not," Sybil replied uneasily, worried not over her own capabilities in such a situation (she'd talked Tom through delivering Robbie, after all) but of the reaction of the couple in front of her.

"He better be bloody _bleeding_," Matthew retorted, squeezing his wife's lifeless hand, and speaking viciously. "There better be blood. _A lot of it_."

Perhaps in another life it would have been comical to hear Tom say rather loudly, through the door, "Man, give the doctor a bit of credit, broke his ankle clean in half...through the skin, poor doc."

"Thomas Branson!" Mary called, which again reminded Sybil of a younger Mary. _Patrick Crawley! _she would yell across the acres of green of the estate. "Save your pity for your sister-in-law who is about to have much more than a bone breaking!"

Sybil coughed. "Thank you, Tom darling," she called.

Matthew closed his eyes.

"Right," Tom replied through the door and they heard his head thunk against the wood. "Well, I'll go check on the children then."

Mary wanted to cry but she could not, not after the silent promise she'd made herself and Matthew. This time the voice in her head was Matthew's: _There is no need for such promises. _She was suddenly terribly cranky and irritable. It seemed like such a small thing to ask, really–that the baby be delivered by Doctor George at Downton Abbey–especially in the scheme of things, especially after all they'd endured.

Didn't they deserve _that _at least?

Then Mary remembered their sleeping daughter, Grace, that first grace, their first undeserved miracle, and she knew that, no matter how their second child came to lie on her breast, it would be undeserved. They were not _entitled _to such a joy, and she remembered the bath she had given Patrick Strallen. The word _grace_ whispered in her mind over and over again, a puff of a dandelion blown into the wind and a heart filled with wishes.

With a sigh, she pressed her eyes shut. "Mary?" Matthew asked.

"I'm fine," she smiled. "Just feeling sorry for myself. I'm stopping now."

"Mary," Sybil began. "There shouldn't be a problem. I've delivered plenty of babies and I'm sure Matthew's mother–"

"Matthew's mother!" Mary screeched before lowering her eyes, the outburst completely out of her control. "She can't...I can't...Down _there_, Sybil!"

"Let me talk to Tom," Matthew offered. He was at a loss. "Perhaps Clarkson..."

"Are you out of your _mind_?" Mary clamped her mouth down on the rest of her words. "He is not coming anywhere near me. _My sister_ is perfectly capable."

Mary would never know what that moment meant to Sybil, the absolute trust and pride Mary had not in _who_ Sybil was but what she could _do, _the skills she'd _learned._

"All right, darling," he appeased, pressing her fingers to his lips.

She'd already failed, letting the pain and irritability crawl out of her mouth to attack her husband, the one person who deserved none of it. Suddenly, she wasn't sure if she could have him here at all. The concept of grace seemed far away when a contraction began and she could not keep her face free of strain. She had to turn away from him, her fingers leaving his, to grip the sheets, her teeth biting the pillow until it passed. When it was over, Sybil examined her with capable and gentle hands and Matthew stroked Mary's hair away from her face. "Mary," he reassured. "I'm here."

She smiled, forcing the smile into a grin. "Of course you're here; where else would you be?"

He thought of the night, so long ago in New York, right before they had left for Downton, when she was still sick in the mornings and suddenly it had hit him how much was changing, in her body and her life. He had put down the book about pregnancy that he'd been reading and curled himself around her as if he could protect her from the bout of morning sickness that would surely come with the dawn. He had not been able to protect her then and he could not protect her from this, either. But he could be here.

_Here._

_I am here, _he'd whispered soundlessly into her hair then, into the night.

He shook his head. "Mary," he began again. "You're not alone this time."

She turned away again. She could not abide his tenderness, not now. Her face and neck throbbed, along with the deeper aching in her womb. His patience irritated her as much as her own inability to keep it all together for his sake. She thought of all the things which calmed her–rocking their daughter to sleep, teaching Gracie her numbers, laughing at Matthew's silly faces towards the baby, watching her papa teach Baby and Gracie their tricks. Then there was Matthew as her husband–Mary's cheek to his chest, hearing his heart beat in rapid rhythm, unable to move after lovemaking, his hand wrapped in her hair. She catalogued every good and perfect thing of the last nine months and there was so much...too many graces to be grateful for...She did not allow herself to consider the bad; it was unworthy to consider them when there had been so much grace in the first place, when one day sitting in the park someone had called out her name.

"Mary," Matthew repeated as another contraction tensed every muscle in her body.

"Breathe," Sybil commanded gently. "It's early yet."

But it did not _feel_ early yet. Her face ached. She could feel each separate bruise, the fingers of Richard's grip on her neck, the depth of his strength she longed to forget, and meanwhile the pain of the labor increased. She did not remember it hurting this badly with Gracie; she could only remember brief moments of cursing followed by her daughter. Her beautiful baby girl. "Sybil," Mary asked after another contraction passed. "How much longer?"

Sybil glanced at Matthew, biting her lip, afraid to tell Mary the real answer.

"Look at_ me_," Mary insisted. "_I'm_ the one having this baby." She shook her hand out of Matthew's, irritated at him for no reason at all except that he was _here _and she could do this alone. She did things better alone.

_You know that isn't true, _the voice whispered.

"Awhile," Sybil replied as calmly as possible. "Awhile yet."

"Something must be wrong," Mary retorted haughtily. She could not help it. It hurt so terribly badly, as if this baby were using his or her nails to claw his or her way out Mary's body. "I don't remember it being like this with Gracie."

"Of course you don't," Sybil said with a soft smile, reaching up to clasp her sister's hand, linking pinkies. "You only remember holding her. You only remember the reward. That's how God designed it, or else no child would ever have the pleasure of a sibling."

_You must be as quiet as a mouse._

"Oh God," Mary cried out. "Matthew, I think you should leave."

Sybil averted her eyes, unclasped her hand from her sister's, and found something to do in the corner. Matthew only pressed his lips to Mary's other hand again. "Of course I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere, Mary. You don't have to worry."

_I'm not worried. _She remembered closing her eyes in the small library, begging him not to look at her. _But I don't know how to have you here, _she thought before she realized she was repeating words she'd spoken aloud in the apartment when he'd wanted to make a family with Grace. Matthew was a good man, a kind man, an honorable man. Even Matthew himself would never take credit for falling so inexplicably in love with a little girl who technically did not belong to him, and yet Gracie was as much Matthew's as she was Mary's, as if everything had been planned all along.

"Maybe I don't want you here," she snapped and pulled her hand away. Could she trust that? Could she believe that Matthew was as necessary to Mary's life as he was to Gracie's? Days ago the answer would have simply been _yes. _But she was suddenly so frightened, remembering the tiny shell of Edith's son's ears, how still he remained, while her pain intensified. Another contraction was beginning. "Maybe it's more difficult having you here watching me than if you were downstairs having a drink and a puff on a cigar with Tom."

"We talked about this," he replied steadily. God, he was so steady and she was the furthest thing from it. "We talked at length about this and you always–"

"Damn it, Matthew!" she cried. "I said _go_."

_Lady Mary could still make Matthew Crawley hate her, _Mary thought, _if she worked hard enough at it. _

Lady Mary hated herself for how easily she could push him away.

He dropped her hand, hurt and angry; hadn't they traversed this land before? And though they'd barely made it, they'd come out whole and stronger. He thought about giving into her wishes but it was so hard to know with her, with Lady Mary Crawley, if he was doing the _right _thing or merely the _noble_ thing. She arched off the bed, crying out. "Go," she pleaded, and tears streamed from her closed lids. "I can't have you here and do this. I can't have you _see _me like this."

He remembered how she'd kept her eyes closed in the library, how loud her thoughts had been, throbbing in the room: _I don't want you to see me. _

He watched her hands grip the sheets, turn white at the knuckles and hold on. "No," he replied softly, and with a great deal of strength pried each of her fingers off of the sheet and attached them to his hand. "I'm here this time, Mary. I'm here."

She began to weep as the contraction only intensified. "But I don't want you here."

"I _don't _believe you," he retorted. "I think you do want me here. And you're afraid."

"I'll hate you if you don't leave," she threatened through heaving breaths, but she gripped his hand as if it were a lifeline.

"I'll risk it," he replied. "Now breathe," he commanded as Sybil had. "Breathe and we'll get through this together."

"There is no together!" she wailed petulantly. "There is me. And there is this baby. And it hurts."

"I'm sorry," Matthew replied and meant it truly and completely. "I'm sorry it hurts and I wish I could do something. You don't know how badly I wish it. But you belong to me, both of you, just as I belong to you."

"This is..." Mary moaned, "is bloody horrible." Her body collapsed in relief as the contraction ended. "And you don't need to see it."

"You're right," he replied, holding her hand, feeling the sweat between their fingers. He did hate to see her in pain. "But I'm here this time. You are not alone. And I will say it a hundred times until you get it through your thick skull. I've been waiting nine months to see this, so do us both a favor and put your efforts into bringing our daughter into the world instead of fighting me for no good reason except that you are afraid for me to see you weak."

"Well, you told her," Sybil whispered from the side of her mouth.

Mary's hand was limp in his, her face turned away. But then she squeezed his palm and smiled up at him, her face sweaty and somehow luminous. "Son," she whispered. "How many times must I tell you?"

He leaned forward and briefly, lightly pressed a kiss to her lips. "Well, darling, now is your chance to prove it."

* * *

><p>So much was the same:<p>

The first anxious cry of a babe in a room filled with silent, yearning expectation.

A warm, hastily wiped-down infant pressed to her breasts, skin to skin, heart to heart.

Kisses pressed to a tiny head seasoned with the slightest bit of dark hair.

Tears leaking from her eyes uncontrollably, rolling off of her cheeks in waves.

Relief.

An anxious flood of love rushing through every part of her.

And yet so much was different, too. First, there was Sybil at her feet instead of some nameless Doctor, cheering her sister on: "I can see the head. Just one more push!"

And then, of course, "Oh, Mary, it's a _boy_! He's gorgeous."

An aunt passed a nephew to his mother.

Matthew. Right beside her the whole time. Hearing every curse and yell. Holding her hand and taking it even when she batted his hand away. Smiling at her when he should have pinched her. Watching his face as he leaned forward eagerly during the final push. Seeing his entire expression change as he watched their baby come into the world. The joy, the thrill, the tears he did not notice. She did not believe a heart could be so full as it was watching Matthew watch their son slip into Sybil's hands.

But then Mary held their son and she knew that a heart could expand infinitely, a thousand times over, as his little body curled into her own, and he fit so perfectly there, as if he had been made for her–and in a way he had been. "Hello, my handsome boy," she whispered as her tears dropped hastily on to his head, an early baptism. "I'm so glad you're here." And though he had the same hair as Gracie, when he opened his eyes Mary's breath caught at the sharp glacial blue of Matthew's. "Oh!" she murmured and no one dared tell her that all babies are born with blue eyes, that babies' eyes change, because Mary the mother saw her husband's eyes in her son's face.

"Mary," Matthew whispered brokenly, and he leaned forward, his face nearly on his wife's breast, tracing the line of his son's nose with the lightest of touches. "Mary. He's perfect." He was crying, those same ice blue eyes that he shared with his son filled with tears. "Thank you," he told his wife before kissing her soundly on the lips. "Thank you...for both of them."

And she knew he meant this baby _and _Gracie.

So much was different.

She was not alone in a room, with a doctor she barely knew, her heart so full and no one to share it with–because Sybil was crying as she washed the baby and then helped Mary wrap him and transfer him into his father's arms. Matthew sat back in the chair he'd claimed for the last ten hours and held his son nervously, gently, and tenderly. It was the closest he had ever been to a miracle, to see so much of himself and of Mary in their son and to know that he would grow to become someone wholly separate, to know that moments ago their son had been inside of Mary and now he was _here _and separate and whole. And even with the joy came the sorrow, as it so often does, because he had never been allowed to hold Gracie like this, so new to the world, so brave and fresh. It could not be dwelled on because it could not be changed, and just as easily as he had fallen in love with Gracie, over her trembling lips and pitiful cry, he fell in love with his son in the same exact way, as the baby sighed softly in his arms and went to sleep, exhausted by his entry into a family filled to the brim with grace.

* * *

><p>By the time everything was said and done, it was nighttime again and Gracie was asleep, and somehow Isobel knew not to intrude so that Mary and Matthew lay on their bed with new linens and their new son between them. She knew that there would have been so much activity if they'd made it to Downton. If she let herself, she could imagine they were in her bed in New York with their daughter and their new son, Gracie asleep down the hall, waiting to join the fun. Of course, Mary wanted to share him with everyone–but at the same time, so soon after meeting him, she felt a bit greedy and this was wonderfully cozy. So Mama and Papa watched him, delighted by his yawns, his reaching hands, his long fingers.<p>

"He has hands like yours," Mary noted sleepily. She loved his fingernails, the tiny shells of them. She could not explain, to anyone but another mother, what it was like to love tiny, perfect fingernails.

Matthew held his hand up to the baby's. "So tiny."

"Well, he _will _have hands like yours," she corrected.

"And your lips," Matthew replied. "I suppose I will be the odd man out, surrounded by my brunette family."

Mary pressed a silent kiss to the baby's ear. "But he has your eyes. I secretly hoped he would. Just as I knew he would be a _he._"

He lifted those eyes to look at his wife, who must be dizzy with exhaustion. "You've won the bet. I owe you a pound." He ignored her snort of confidence. "You should sleep."

"I will." She smiled. "Thank you for staying with me. For knowing me enough to ignore me. For _wanting_ to stay." She brushed a hand through his thick wave of blonde hair. "You are such a good husband."

"Stop," he commanded softly, and lifted one of his sons hands to kiss it. The baby watched him, taking in his features as if he was thirsty to know this man whose face was close enough to see with his brand new infant eyes. "I can't wait for Gracie to meet him."

"Hmm," Mary replied, laying her head on the flat bed. "When she wakes up."

"Maybe we'll have a name for him by then," Matthew added. This time he brushed the hair off of her face. "Hmm?"

"Any suggestions?" Mary asked. "I can't even think, I'm so tired."

"Not at the moment," he admitted before urging, "Sleep. You showed me how to swaddle him. I'll rock him. You did the hard work. Let me do this."

"I love you," she whispered. "So much."

He grinned at her, foolishly, and then his smile slid away. "I am so happy. I cannot even say how happy I am, really. But I wish, so badly, that we could go back, and that a brand new Gracie could be between us. I am so sorry to have missed _this_ with her_._"

"Shh," she told him, leaning over the baby, despite the pain, and kissing him lightly. "We cannot go back. But the fact that you...that you would even think of that...or say that...or mean it, as I know you do...there is nothing more I could ever wish for or hope for–your desire for that. You are her Papa as much as you are his. The _best _Papa."

He stole one more kiss before she lay back down and closed her eyes.

* * *

><p>It wasn't long before she woke to their son's quiet cries and Matthew's voice regretfully calling her name. "I think he's hungry." Matthew's uncertainty made Mary want to kiss him all over his face–if only she had the energy. Instead, she began to unbutton her nightgown. "Should I go?" Matthew asked softly, swaying the baby back in forth in his arms. And then timidly, "Can I stay?"<p>

Mary's eyes were half lidded but her smile was warm and inviting. She patted the bed beside her. "You survived the birth," she replied lightly. "I'm sure you'll make it through watching our son have his dinner."

He could not take his eyes off of the pair of them–his wife and his son, the way Mary looked down at the baby with so much love, how their son, with a bit of prodding, began to suckle. He reached over, touching the skin of her breast, just above the baby's mouth, in amazement.

"There you are," she whispered to the baby. "There you are."

"He's so beautiful," Matthew murmured. "The two of you...I can't explain. My chest..."

"He's handsome," Mary corrected as she smiled and touched the baby's cheek. "He's our handsome boy. And your chest..." She winced for a moment before dragging her eyes off of the baby's face to look at Matthew. "I don't think I could be happier. Oh, Matthew."

"There is just one thing missing," he replied, scooting a bit closer.

"Two," Mary replied. "Two."

Matthew looked at her with confusion in his eyes. "You mean Gracie, of course. But who else?"

"Why, the dog, of course. Baby deserves to be in this bed with her family just as much as any of us..." Mary swallowed and smiled through tears. "You'll have to lift her, you know. She won't be able to jump." Mary's smile wobbled. "But Baby deserves to see what she saved."

* * *

><p>The winter morning light filtered in through the frosted windows of Gracie's room as Matthew opened the door. She slept, in a crib she was fast outgrowing, as she always had, with her bum in the air. She was just like he'd found her in Mary's room on the second day of knowing her, Mrs. Larsen having told him to <em>go right on up.<em> He would have to telegram Mrs. Larsen, Matthew realized, for surely she would want to know. And one day, he promised himself, the four Crawleys would go back and stay in the brownstone and have a lovely holiday. As he walked towards the crib he realized that's exactly what their time in New York _had been–_a lovely, perfect holiday/honeymoon, their family in a snowglobe of protection and the joy of new discoveries. There had been no extended family to contend with and then make up with. Nor real life enemies who could wound them or worse. It had only been the three of them–Matthew, Mary, and Gracie (and the baby of course), learning, _practicing _how to negotiate life as a family. It had been wonderful and though it could not have gone on forever, because holidays were not made to go on forever, it had been their beginning and sacred in its way. It had been where he learned to be a father.

He hadn't really learned to be a husband until they arrived back at Downton, when real life had smacked both Matthew and Mary in the face. But those thoughts were for another time. Yes, in New York, Gracie, with help from her mother, had taught him how to be a Papa, how to make animal sounds, cut up food in the right size, rock, change a nappy, sing silly songs, cuddle with a toddler in the middle of their bed.

He laid his hand on her back and she stirred, lifting her head briefly and then closing her eyes again before she realized that it was him. "Papa!" she whispered with excitement. She rolled onto her feet and lifted her arms to be held. "Papa! My papa!" She kissed his unshaven cheek and rubbed her cheek against it. "Ouch," she mocked and laughed. In turn, he kissed her smooth cherub cheek.

"Ouch," he cried back and they laughed together.

"Mama. Papa. Gracie," she said next. It was her new favorite string of words, a litany of her family. Sometimes she included Syb and Tom and Robbie, or Vi and Iz, depending on who was in the room. But much of the time, she only said three names. "Mama?" she questioned as if she may have dreamt the last time she saw Mary.

"Mama is with your baby brother. Would you like to meet him?" Matthew asked.

Gracie looked at him warily, just as Mary had the first day in the park. "Brother? Mama?"

"The baby," Matthew corrected. "The baby was born and he is your brother."

She nodded her head, agreeing. "Yes."

Mary could hear Gracie jibbering away as Matthew carried her down the hall. Per usual, she was recounting her favorite story, _Jack and the Beanstalk_, but it took a special ear to understand her dialect as she repeated: beans, Jack, fee, fi, fo, fum, giant, goose, gold. Mary waited on the bed, holding the baby in her arms.

"Good morning, darling!" she said with a smile for Gracie. "I'm so happy you're here. And so is your brother!"

Gracie gasped at the baby that had been inside of her mother's belly...that was now in her mother's arms. "Baby!" she squealed and, mimicking how many people reacted to her, as Matthew brought her closer to see him, Gracie let out an "Awwww."

Matthew sat on the bed beside Mary with Gracie in his lap. "This is your brother."

Gracie reached out a tentative finger and touched his nose. Mary and Matthew allowed it and Gracie smiled brilliantly. "Me?" she asked Mary. "Gracie do it?" she added (another of her current favorite phrases).

"Would you like to hold him?" Mary asked. "You must be careful because he is so little, you see. Remember when Baby was very little and needed your help?" Gracie nodded seriously. "Well, we have to take care of him and be very gentle because he is so little, just like Maggie when you first held her."

"Maggie," Gracie repeated. "Gracie do it. Maggie." In other words: _Are you going to let me hold him or not? because I've held Maggie on more than one occasion, you know._

"Here you go, darling." Mary laid the baby in the lap of their daughter, who still sat in Matthew's lap. Matthew's arms came up to help so Gracie could enjoy the illusion of holding her brother. Gracie watched her brother quietly for a moment and Mary and Matthew watched the two of them. Mary so badly wanted for Gracie to love her brother, for all their children to get along, to never have the regrets she felt over her relationship with Edith.

Slowly, as if she were waiting for one of her parents to prevent it, Gracie leaned forward and touched her lips to the baby's. He opened his eyes. "Blue," she gasped. "Hello," she told him cheerfully with a note of tenderness neither Matthew nor Mary had ever heard her use. "Hello, Jack."

Matthew and Mary looked at one another.

"We haven't named him yet, Gracie Girl," Matthew explained.

Gracie shook her head, never taking her eyes off of her brother. To his credit, her brother never took his eyes off of her either. She leaned down and rubbed his nose with her nose, gently as Mama had asked. "Jack," she whispered to him. "Jack. You. Love you, Jack."

Mary laughed. "Grace, we haven't picked a name for him yet..."

Grace looked at her mother through narrowed eyes and raised one eyebrow. "Gracie do it," she retorted.

Then she looked down at the baby and repeated in that tender, crooning tone: "Hello, my Jack."

* * *

><p>The four of them spent the early morning together in bed. They could not have left if they had tried since Gracie refused to relinquish "Jack." But she had been awakened very early, so eventually her eyes began to droop, and Mary told her that she would feed the baby–<em>Jack! <em>Gracie corrected stubbornly–and that she would see her _brother _very soon.

But as Mary began to feed him, she looked down at his face, his blue eyes open and watchful. He had cheeks like Grace and she wondered if he would have a dimple. His chin was Mary's, his eyes Matthew's. And yet one day, he would be a boy and then a man, all his own. Mary began to tear up without meaning to as the baby suckled. One day he would come to her with scraped knees and one day Matthew would teach him how to ride a bicycle but before that there would be first steps and the first tooth and first words. _Who will you be? _she wondered, looking at him. One tear fell onto his blanket as Matthew returned.

He sat beside her. "Maybe Gracie is right. Maybe we should name him 'John.'" They both looked down at his face, his dark inky eyelashes blinking as he began to grow sleepy, his fist curled on Mary's breast. "The family can call him Jack."

She smiled and looked up at Matthew. "How many times have we read her that story?"

"Millions," he laughed.

But suddenly Mary wasn't laughing. She was weeping, looking down at the baby and smiling and then taking Matthew's hand. "Oh, Matthew. Adults can be so dense sometimes."

He wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs. "How do you mean?" he asked.

"Her favorite story is _Jack and the Beanstalk_," Mary smiled brilliantly at the baby. "Jack is the hero, you know. Jack is _her_ hero. He's all she talks about some days. And she looked at her brother and she called him Jack. She called him the name of her most beloved hero."

Matthew was silent. The moment felt sacred, with the baby's mouth leaving Mary's breast, his eyes fluttering shut as he sighed his way into sleep, and one must be silent during sacred moments. "Jack," he repeated, testing it on his tongue as he looked at his son. Like Mary, he wondered: _Who will you be? _And at the same time, part of the answer came unerringly to both Mary and Matthew. "He _is _Jack."

"He is," she repeated. "Jack Thomas Crawley."

From that moment on, their son had a name that could not be changed because it was simply _who he was. _

What they had created in a bed in New York, something so perfect and lovely, beyond what two foolish people in pastel colored outfits at a Garden Party could have imagined or deserved, finally had a name.

And his name was Jack.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Please, please, please...after this long awaited event...let me (and Faeyero) know what you think! It's been fifty seven chapters in the making! xo, LDI_


	58. Chapter 58

_A/N: Hi! First, I know I said there would an epilogue but I found in writing this chapter that this is really is the last word to the Grace saga. Perhaps I will return to the Grace universe and write some short drabbles but this completes this story in the best way that I know how to. _

_More importantly, I have to thank Faeyero, for ALL of her help–editing, talking, bouncing ideas off of you–you've really done it all. Everyone owes you a thank you because without your encouragement, I don't know if I would have finished this story. You knew I had a story to tell and you've been there every step of the way since I first asked for a beta. _

_I must also thank YOU, the reader. There are SO many of you who have commented since the very first chapter was posted; I would love to name you all now but am too afraid to forget someone (I will be messaging you all privately, however, over the next week(s). Thank YOU to everyone who has joined in along the way, as well! And to ALL OF YOU, for your patience during my move, and as the chapters became longer and were therefore slower in coming. I COULD NOT HAVE DONE IT WITHOUT YOU, TRULY! Please, please, please...if you've been reading this story...or you happen upon it later...will you drop me a review and let me know what you think? It has certainly been a labor of love, for Faeyero and I, quite literally in some chapters :) Finally, feel free to drop me a line here, or ask me questions on my tumblr: Ladonnaingenua . It can be a question about the plot or anything really. Without further ado..._

* * *

><p>Chapter Fifty Eight<p>

"John is a nice name," Granny admitted from her perch on the chair, her walking stick in both hands, as she peered at her great grandchild. "Some may think it common but I think it very strong."

"But his name isn't 'John,'" Mary reminded her with a smile, though her eyes were trained on the baby who looked up at her with icy blue eyes and squirmed a bit in his swaddling blanket. "It's _Jack_."

"Isn't 'Jack' a nickname for 'John'?" Cora asked sweetly. She could not stop staring at her grandson, her daughter and her grandson, the way Mary held him and kissed his head with its downy black hair. She'd never expected Mary to be such a good mother. She'd never thought of it. But if there was anything that Cora had learned these past eight months, it was that Mary was an _exceptional_ mother. "He's so beautiful," Cora repeated her earlier sentiments again, with tears in her eyes.

"His sister has named him _Jack_." Matthew insisted, smiling and pressed a kiss to Gracie's head. Father and daughter sat in his old chair from university. She was sleepy. Having a baby brother was so exciting, she was nearly worn out.

"Gracie do it," she claimed proudly as she blinked several times.

"Gracie did it," Mary corrected and affirmed gently.

"Speaking of Jack's sister," Matthew said, grinning, and stood with Gracie in his arms, "I think it's time for a story in the rocking chair." In other words, it was time for a nap.

"Jack too?" Gracie asked as she wound her arms around her father's neck and pressed her cheek to his heart. "Please. My Jack."

"Not this time, darling." Matthew kissed her again, this time on the nose. He'd all but forgotten the audience. "This time is just for Papa and Gracie."

His answer settled her and her lips curved into the smile of a child who knows she is loved completely and wholly, without exception. "Yes. Papa. Gracie."

"Yes," he whispered into her curls as he exited the room. "Just us two."

Cora watched them the whole time, her eyes never leaving the duo.

* * *

><p>Not much later, she eavesdropped on the tail end of Matthew's story. It seemed a frightful tale of a dragon and other fearsome creatures (though Grace's bloodthirsty attitude was obvious when she corrected him that the dragon was "<em>very <em>big," and "green," and "scary") which in the end were all slain by the beautiful Princess Gracie and her companion, Baby the dog. Some silence passed, in which Cora could hear the chair continue to rock, but Grace's voice had murmured off to sleep. Still, Matthew kept rocking her, and even as Cora peeked around the doorway to see, she knew there was nowhere else in the world her son-in-law would rather be–not with his son, or his wife, but with this child who was not his flesh and blood but was _his_ all the same. He loved her. It was as simple as that and yet so miraculous that Cora could feel a lump growing in her throat.

How awful she had been to him.

Still, she could not help watching as he lifted the girl in his arms and walked towards the crib. "Sweet dreams, my darling girl," he whispered before pressing a kiss to her forehead and laying her in the crib. "Sweet dreams, my darling Gracie."

Silent tears poured from Cora's eyes. She had gotten everything so terribly, terribly wrong. She'd been jealous and hurt. She'd failed and lashed out. And all the while Matthew was _here_–stalwart, strong Matthew–taking care of her grandchild, _his _child.

If Matthew was surprised to see his mother-in-law crying in the doorway, he did not show it. He did, however, close the door to Gracie's room (no longer the nursery, he supposed) all the way.

"I'm so sorry," Cora blurted out. "For everything."

He smiled. She could not tell if he was just being polite or if he meant it. "It's all right, Cora."

"No, it isn't." She shook her head. "You love that girl, you love them all, so much...I was jealous and mean-spirited. I was unfair. I was _wrong._"

"Yes," Matthew agreed and grew more somber. "You were wrong. I would do anything at all for Gracie. I would do anything at all for Jack. There is no difference to me, be it blood or gender." Cora nodded her head, pressed her lips together to keep from crying out. "However, I can understand–I can _try_ to understand–how you might have seen things..."

Cora let out a wet laugh. "Oh, please don't try to understand. Only know how very sorry I am. How very much I wish I could take back what I've said and how I acted, not just to you but to Sybil and Tom. Mary, as well. And Gracie, of course."

"That's the grandest part of it, Cora," he told her, this time smiling, grinning really, patting her shoulder. "You have time to change, to be different."

"Time," she repeated, reverently, as if she'd never heard the word before. "Yes. Time."

* * *

><p>Granny wasn't the only one perplexed by Jack's name. Everyone, including Isobel, including Sybil, asked if he was to be christened 'John.' "No," Mary replied, each time growing more testy. "His name is <em>Jack<em>. Just look at his face. Does he look like a 'John' to you?"

Anyone with half a brain knew there was only one answer to that question.

There was only one person who did not question his name and that was Mary's father, who had faithfully bought Gracie every copy of _Jack and the Beanstalk_ he had been able to find before Jack even entered the world, just special gifts for his granddaughter. Mary tried to forgive him for coming later than the others for that simple fact alone.

"Why, of course he is Jack," Robert boasted proudly and, without knowing his daughter's earlier words to the question of his grandson's name, repeated: "Look at his face. He could hardly be anyone else other than 'Jack.'" His eyes twinkled. "I suppose Gracie had something to do with that."

"Of course she did," Mary replied, adding a bit petulantly, "But you've missed her. Because you're so late in coming. Matthew's already put her down to bed."

"I'm sorry, Mary." But he didn't look sorry.

"What was so important that you stayed away from your daughter and new grandchild?" she asked testily. Matthew, sensing where the conversation was headed, leaned forward and took the baby from her, standing and walking the room with him, watching his son's sleeping face, so blissfully relaxed and comforted in his arms, instead of his wife's angry one. "Didn't you care to see us then?" And because Matthew knew that it was for Robert and Mary to work out, he did not go to her, though he wanted to, when he heard her voice tremble with tears at her question.

"Of course!" Robert huffed. "But there are renovations being done to Downton Abbey and I had certain responsibilities–"

"Oh, that _stupid _house!" Mary wailed and Jack let out a little wail himself, hearing his mother's cry, so she lowered her voice. "It will always come back to that, won't it, Papa? I'm still not as important as that house."

"Sit back," Robert blustered. "Calm yourself."

"Do _not _tell me to calm myself!"

"For God's sake!" Matthew whispered over the baby he held in his arms. "You two are the most stubborn pair of people I've ever known." He ignored Mary's raised eyebrow. "Will _you_ just _tell _her what you were having done to the house, Robert?" He looked at his father-in-law. Then he looked at his wife. "And then perhaps _we _can quit the melodramatics."

"I'll show you melodramatics later!" she warned in a low voice.

"I'm having a billiards room put in," Robert announced brightly, as if the rest of the conversation hadn't taken place. "They are all the rage now and I wanted one so I am set on having one."

Mary's seething gaze left her husband to find her father's eyes. "A billiards room? That's what is so important! You're putting an addition on to the house so you can shoot little balls into holes with sticks?"

"It's actually quite a refined sport–" Matthew stopped Robert by coughing rather loudly. "No, there is no addition."

"Then you're just adding one of those tables to one of the rooms. What is there to oversee? Isn't Carson capable?" Mary snapped, and before Matthew could comment she turned to glare at him. "You stay out of this."

"It wasn't just about putting a table in a room," Robert said with more patience than he had shown in the rest of the conversation combined. "I wanted this particular room completely changed, completely different. And I wanted it done before the baby was born."

Mary sniffed. "What room? What does Jack have to do with any of this?"

Robert looked down at his hands, his useless hands. "We have one library." He cleared his throat. "I no longer saw the need for a second, smaller one. The paint needed changing, the wood carvings redone. I think you will find it wholly different when you're well enough to see it."

Mary was quiet for a long moment. Some part of her was aware that her father was sitting beside her offering her something more precious than any gift he'd ever given her. Another part of her could dimly hear the baby begin to stir because he was hungry. "A billiards room then?"

He reached for her hand on the bed and held tight. "A billiards room."

"Hmm." She did not feel the tears on her cheeks. "A billiards room. Where men go to have brandy and port and smoke cigars. And no one reads books."

"Who would read a book in a billiards room?" Robert asked, and he was crying too.

If Gracie had been there, she would have asked, "Happy? Sad?" because if anything, her mother's pregnancy had taught her that there were different kinds of tears. And if Gracie had been there and asked her grandfather and mother if their tears were happy or sad, they would have stared at her as if she spoke some unknown language, because there was no word for the type of tears they cried. There was not a word that Gracie could understand–there was not a word in the human language to describe the tears that fell freely down their cheeks to their chins. These were tears filled with _I am sorry. _

_Don't be sorry. _

_But if...You couldn't have. And now, it's useless. _

_It isn't; it never was. _

_But if only I had..._

_If only _I _had. _

_It wasn't your fault. _

_And it wasn't your fault either. _

_Do you think we can go back? _

_To before? _

_Can we learn to protect each other and trust each other? _

_Have a care with one another, you mean? _

_Yes, can we learn to have a care. _

_I always cared. _

_I didn't know what to say or how to show it. _

_Neither did I. _

_I am so lost and lonely and filled to the brim with love all at once. _

_It's spilling out of my eyes, this love. _

_Can you love me? _

_Will you hold on to me if I try to hold you?_

In the end, all Mary managed to say was, "I cannot wait to best you at billiards...and with a cigar in my mouth, too."

Her father rolled his eyes. "Really, Mary. A cigar?"

* * *

><p>Later that night, Mary and Matthew discovered the cradle fit best on Matthew's side of the bed, out of the pathway to the bathroom. "We'll have to switch sides then," Mary said, curling into his arms as they both watched the sleeping baby. She couldn't describe the way she felt. She wanted to turn her face to Matthew's and weep. She had so many <em>feelings<em> inside of her. It had not been like this after Gracie; she'd written in a letter to Granny–_Gracie made me strong. _There had been no tears then. But Mary thought, perhaps, that if Gracie had made her strong, Jack had opened her up, to feel, to breathe, to live...freely. And it hurt, like a wound's first exposure to the very fresh air that would heal it completely. It was time her wounds were bathed in fresh air, she realized. It was time to heal, all of the way, the whole way.

"Why would we do that?" Matthew asked, kissing her hair, the same hair Gracie had, the same hair Jack had. He couldn't know what was going on inside of his wife's head but he knew something had changed. She cried more easily, perhaps. But she smiled more easily as well.

"Because he's going to wake up more than a couple of times in the middle of the night, Matthew. I don't expect you to play nursemaid," she replied.

He slid his hand into her hair, touching her cheek, tilting her face up. "Has it occurred to you that I'm a light sleeper and will wake no matter what side of the bed he's on?" He brushed his lips to hers.

She shook her head. "You're right. This will not do at all. You must sleep in your dressing room."

He shook with quiet laughter. "Mary, first you push me to the other side of the bed and now you've put me in the dressing room." He kissed her again, this time more thoroughly. "Let me decide where I want to be."

Before these last few months, before Jack, the next words she uttered would have been such hard, hard words to say. She would have been afraid to ask these hard words; she would have backed away from them.

Her hand rose and her fingers circled his wrist. "Where do you want to be, Matthew?"

_Where do you want to be?_

"Here," he replied easily, laying them both back. "Just so. With you."

_Here. Just so. With you. _She fell asleep with his whisper in her ear.

Later, she heard them in the dark–her men. "Shh, now, Jack," Matthew murmured. "Papa's got you. And Mama's right here to fill up your belly." Automatically, without opening her eyes, she began to unbutton her nightgown. "There she is," Matthew whispered. "Your beautiful Mama." For a moment, the babe quieted as if he could see it too–how beautiful Mary was unbuttoning her nightgown in the winter moonlight. Matthew passed him to Mary and within seconds he was suckling. She sighed.

"You're tired," Matthew noted.

"A bit," she replied as she rubbed her nose with the back of her free hand. "But it comes with the job."

"I suppose it does," he replied softly, watching her, watching Jack lay his hand–a few shades darker than Mary's skin, more like Matthew's own–against her breast, flexing now and again. When he looked up, Mary was watching him and he colored. "It's just...I just...it's beautiful, really. The way you wrote about it in your letters, I knew what it meant to you and I could imagine it, but to see it, to see the way he knows you and to see you with your nightgown like that...I have so many feelings in my chest I might burst."

She leaned over and gave him a sleepy kiss, the baby continuing to nurse between them. "I love you. So much." _ I want to be here. Just so. With you._

The fourth time Jack woke, near dawn, Matthew had to shake Mary's shoulder and help her with the buttons. He laid the baby in her arms and the baby did the rest while Mary's eyes were only slits. "How are you not exhausted?" she asked, dreamily. _Do you still want to be here, just so, with me?_

"Well, I _watched _you do the hard part, Mary," he began–but she was already asleep. He waited for Jack to finish and then put him back in the cradle before returning to Mary and buttoning the tiny buttons for her.

"I did this with Gracie," she slurred. "I woke up. I wasn't remiss in my duties, I swear it."

He smiled, kissed the top of one of her breasts, near her heart. "I know that. God, Mary. You were alone. You had to wake up. But you aren't alone anymore."

_You aren't alone anymore._

_I am with you. Where I want to be. Just so._

As she floated off into an exhausted sleep, she knew it was true. And she did not dream.

* * *

><p>The night with its multiple feedings was a blur and Matthew had declared that today she <em>must <em>rest. Still, just before she was about to feed Jack his lunch, Matthew and Gracie came through the door. Guess who is here to see you?" Matthew asked cheerfully, while he tried to communicate something strange with the movement of his eyebrows.

"Dithy!" Gracie cheered.

Indeed, it was Edith, with cheeks a bit rounder from the pregnancy, red from the cold winter air. "Come in," Mary asked her with a smile.

"Let's let Aunt Edith and Mama talk alone, darling," Matthew told Gracie, his hand in hers.

"Why?" she asked (another of her new favorite words), and Mary could hear Matthew begin to explain that Dithy and Mama were siblings just as Jack and Gracie...before the door shut, leaving them in complete privacy.

"I'm sorry for not coming sooner," Edith proclaimed from the foot of the bed. "I should have."

Mary shook her head. "It doesn't matter. You've come now. Come sit."

"Mary, I'm afraid," Edith replied in a whisper, one of her hands grasping Mary's foot through the blankets. "I'm afraid to look at him, to think...I would hate myself for thinking anything ugly about...what have you named him, then?"

"Gracie named him," Mary smiled. "Jack. And I...understand your fear. I'm so sorry, Edith. So sorry." Mary began to cry. "I wish–"

"Why did you never tell me? About Gracie and about...about what happened to you?" Edith looked down. "I said such hateful things to you about your _perfect _life_. _And I only said half of what I actually thought. I was so...jealous. And mean."

"You didn't know," Mary whispered.

"And I didn't make it easy for you to tell me, either," Edith snapped, all of her anger reserved for herself. "What kind of person...what kind of _sister_...?"

"I could have told you, Edith," Mary whispered. "But I hated–hate–to speak of it. Truth be told, I've always preferred your anger to your pity. I didn't want you thinking of me in some room, _ruined..."_

"I've always preferred your anger, too," Edith replied. "But you were there in _my room, _when I was_..._It is completely different, but you saw me, _ruined. _You saw me and you loved me. Perhaps you loved me more _because_ you were in that room with me."

"Oh, Edith," Mary cried, just as Jack let out a wail. "He's hungry," she murmured, tears blinding her eyes as she tried to unbutton with one hand while holding the baby.

"Let me," Edith said, and without thinking she took Jack into her arms. She looked into his face, saw Mary's lips and chin, Matthew's eyes. She wondered if he would be able to raise an eyebrow like his mother. "Hello, there. You are just lovely, aren't you, Jack?" Mary's hands stilled on the buttons, listening, her heart aching. "You'll get your luncheon soon enough. I'm your Aunt Edith...or Dithy, like your sister calls me. Oh, I bet your sister just adores you!" Jack stopped crying and looked up at her. He wrapped his fingers around one of Edith's fingers, near his face. "Look how strong you are! Strong and handsome! Oh, you are just the sweetest...Here is your Mama." She handed Mary the baby and sat beside her sister. "It's all right if I stay, isn't it?"

"Of course," Mary replied, trying not to cry.

Edith watched for seconds before whispering. "It's lovely. I didn't think...They say it hurts."

"It does," Mary replied. "But you get used to it."

"I'd like that," Edith said, her hand over her barely there belly. "I'd like to get used to it."

Mary reached for Edith's hand. She did not grab it. Instead, she locked pinkies with her sister. Edith looked shocked. "You will. I know you will."

"Oh, Mary," she whispered. "I am so sorry. So sorry for everything. I wish that I could..."

"And I wish that _I_ could," Mary added softly. "Let's do better, let's be better, for each other, all right?"

"Yes." Edith's smile was lovely. "Yes." She let out a squeal. "He is such a beautiful baby, Mary. And is it true? Did Gracie really name him?"

"Gracie do it," Mary mimicked and Edith laughed, brushing away her tears.

"I adore that girl, I do. She reminds me of someone I used to know," Edith winked.

"Perhaps a bit kinder," Mary noted.

Edith shook her head. That didn't matter now. "I wonder what Jack will be like, when he's old enough to talk back to her."

"Oh, she's already claimed him. 'My Jack,' she says, at every opportunity." Mary laughed.

"You used to do the same with Sybil," Edith recalled. "You'd carry her around the house telling everyone this was your baby, _Lady Sybil_."

"Oh!" Mary giggled. "You're right. I was too little to do that with you. We were so close in age. But do you know, a few months ago, I remembered this day, near the seashore. You were tiny. Old enough to hold your head up though, maybe to toddle about, too. You had this giant bonnet on your head, no doubt one of Mama's choices..."

"Of course," Edith smiled and squeezed Mary's pinky.

"And your hair was very blond, nearly yellow. The wind had it blowing around your face. I wanted to tell you that you were a beautiful baby, just beautiful."

Edith began slowly. Some words were so hard to say aloud, to even admit to oneself. "I was afraid to come here. Especially when I heard it was a boy. I was afraid I would look at your baby and see Patrick. But I don't. I look at _this _baby and I see only Jack." She paused and wet her lips. "I never thanked you. For taking care of him, for taking care of Patrick. For trying to take care of me. I couldn't thank you then."

"You don't have to," Mary assured her as they both wept.

"But I want to!" Edith cried. "So thank you, Mary. Thank you so much for taking care of me and my son and for loving him, while he was here, and not forgetting him now that he is gone."

"I won't forget," Mary promised. Edith laid her head on Mary's knees next to the baby and cried silently. "I couldn't."

Mary remembered Matthew talking about when he began to feel things in his legs again, how dreadful it was to hope that the tingle was real and not something phantom, how sharp the edge of hope and despair could be when something once dead came back to life. While Mary held the baby to her breast and he expertly suckled, she petted Edith's hair. She felt as if the room were filled with equal parts hope and despair, that they would drown here, in this place, halfway between death and rebirth–and it was just as Matthew had said, sharp, difficult, sweet, and aching.

She did the only thing she could do. She did what Matthew had done. She rode it out, holding her son and her sister, and when Edith lifted her head and Jack switched to her other breast, it all hurt, ached a little less. She knew things were coming back to life and death had nothing to do with it.

* * *

><p>After dinner and while Matthew was putting Gracie to sleep, Sybil knocked lightly on her sister's door. "Mary, I don't mean to bother you but have you seen..." She stopped speaking when she saw the person she'd been looking for–her husband–holding new baby Jack, very comfortably in a chair at Mary's bedside. "Traitor," she sneered at him. "Do you realize that I just had to wrestle our eldest child into bed? While carrying a very hungry Maggie about? It's blind luck they're both asleep now."<p>

"Sybil," he said cheerfully, his eyes on Jack. "I've decided we ought to have another baby."

"You've decided?" she asked, and Mary could practically see smoke coming out of her ears. "You've decided? After I dealt with the ones we have alone tonight? After we both decided it would be good to wait a time between Maggie and the next?"

"I know but..." Tom kept his eyes on the baby. "Come here," he commanded.

Sybil did not like to be commanded anywhere so she huffed with her hands on her hips as she walked over. "Yes, Tom. I've seen him. I've held him. He's a beautiful baby. He's our nephew and I love him but you aren't even listening to me...Tom!" she twisted his ear.

"Ouch!" he squealed just as Matthew entered and wisely closed the door. "Jesus forgive my wife. She knows not what violence she does to me," Tom prayed mournfully before winking at the baby. "But seriously, love, look at him. All new and fresh. Just waiting to be cuddled."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, are you already tired of the ones we have?'

"Sybil," he chided. "Stop it."

"Actually," Matthew cleared his throat. "We've been wanting to get you two alone for the last few days but there have been so many visitors...We wanted to thank you for all the help you've given."

"It's nothing," Tom replied before Sybil smacked him on the head while whispering, "As if _you_ havedone _anything!"_

"Again, Lord, my wife...she doesn't–"

"Anyway," Mary spoke over Tom and her sister. They were like new kittens, swiping at one another with useless claws only to sleep curled up around one another in the next moment. "We wanted you to know we've named him Jack Thomas Crawley."

Tom, for once in his life, went silent. "You mean, you've...?"

"I think we would have chosen it regardless but then there was that morning when you stayed with me in the hospital, and I just don't think I can express how grateful I was for that and, of course, before that, Sybil showed me the dedication of your book–" Mary explained.

_For Robbie, Gracie, Maggie, _ ...and the ones who come after. English or Irish, or a bit of both, I have no doubt you'll all set the world afire with your courage and brains. You are so loved._

Tom peered up at his weeping wife. "You showed her? But your promised..." he whined.

"Oh, do shut up!" she sniffled.

"You are family, Tom. You're my brother and Matthew's, as well. I don't know how we would have gotten through these last months without you. And...you waited five years for my sister. Five years." Mary laughed. "Matthew and I never could wait five minutes for one another, let alone years. But not you. You are steadfast and patient and certain in your love. You would risk anything, _everything_ for someone you love because you know sometimes there are worthy risks to be taken. I...we want Jack to be very much like the man who waited five years for my sister, who stole her in the night and then let her go, who built a life with her, and has loved her unceasingly."

Sybil was quietly sobbing into her hands, her shoulders shaking, before she wiped her tears away and laid a kiss on Tom's hair. "You forgot that he is very funny, Mary. Very funny and funny looking. I hope our next child has my looks and his sense of humor."

Tom could have said a million things in that moment. But he was smart and he was wise and he knew Crawley women, Crawley mothers in particular, and didn't feel like sopping up tears for days. Finally, around the lump in his throat, he only murmured, "You honor me, Mary." But he had to add something, of course. Because he was Tom and he was funny. And he made Mary and Sybil laugh through their tears consistently. "I'll teach him the best Irish curse words. Don't you worry about that," Tom promised.

Mary hiccuped out a laugh.

* * *

><p>Life did not slow down. Though those first few weeks were hazy and Mary was exhausted she could not remember ever feeling so happy nor crying as much. If she thought pregnancy hormones were bad, they were nothing compared to watching Matthew carry Baby up the stairs that first time and lay her on the bed where Mary held Gracie and Gracie held Jack. "Jack. Mama. Papa. Baby. Gracie," Gracie had recited. "Family." And Gracie's hair absorbed the worst of Mary's tears.<p>

She was completely, thrillingly open and free.

The firm had given Matthew time off, not just because of the baby but because of the attack on Mary. As far as the town knew, Richard Carlisle was a lunatic who deserved to die after what he'd done to Lady Mary and to his poor wife. And if any gossip mongers ever dared wonder why Richard Carlisle had been allowed inside Crawley House in the first place, the baker–Gretchen–or the Innkeepers–Mr. and Mrs. Bates–corrected them civilly before ordering them off their premises and telling them never to return. Since Mr. and Mrs. Bates ran the only inn in town and Gretchen made the best sweets, any rumors died away, suffocated by Crawley loyalists.

Travers christened the baby Jack Thomas Crawley and Jack Thomas Crawley squawked like a little bird when he was placed into the the man's unfamiliar arms and water poured onto his dark hair. He howled as Travers tried to recite the words from the Book of Common Prayer..._We receive this child–_and Jack batted the book hard enough that old Travers' fingers slipped and it fell into the Holy Water–and Mary laughed into her handkerchief and Tom whispered _good shot, boy-o, _before Travers rolled his eyes and continued the service from memory.

Mary and Matthew had asked Travers to baptize Gracie, as well. He'd been astounded: _You've yet to baptize this child? _Mary had colored and wanted to screech at the man before Matthew had lied through his teeth. _Yes, but the family wasn't there. And we would like the family to see Gracie be baptized. _

Travers had peered at them and Mary had wanted to take his nose in her hand and squeeze. It was the first time she had left the house and Sybil and Tom were watching the children while she and Matthew dealt with this pathetic excuse for a man. And then suddenly the words had come to her, as she remembered Granny commanding Travers to baptize the already dead baby Patrick: _Shall I get my Granny involved, Mr. Travers?_

So Mr. Travers said the words for Gracie as well, christening her Grace Violet Crawley, while Violet complained that_ something was in her eye _and_ wasn't it peculiar to have allergies in the wintertime?_ Gracie had stood very still, very solemn, as Travers poured the water over her head, and for a moment Mary had thought she'd caught a glimpse of what an adult Gracie would be like. But then the image had gone and her daughter stood, nearly two years and six months, laughing gaily.

Mary and Matthew had three weeks to watch Gracie make up nonsense lullabies for her brother, to watch Baby learn to limp on three legs, to admire Jack's growth, his smiles and little cooing. It reminded Mary so very much of New York when they had the time to learn how to _be _a family of three. Now, they learned to be a family of _four_, five if one included Baby, which Mary very much did.

Long after Matthew had forgiven Cora, Mary forgave her as well, when with the help of Matthew and Mosley, Cora presented Mary with a rocking chair that looked exactly like Gracie's. "They should each have their own," Cora said. "Don't you think? So Gracie can continue to be rocked as well? Shouldn't both of them be rocked by their Mama and Papa?" She asked her questions eagerly, as if she wanted to be liked and chosen by the teacher. She twisted her hands together and for a moment it was painfully awkward before she added again, "The both of them. _Both_."

"Oh, Mama!" Mary cried out, because if there was anything that melted her heart it was a rocking chair. And then Cora told Mary how she, as a young mother, would wake in the middle of the night and go to Mary's nursery and rock her, though she wasn't restless, just so she could hold her baby girl, so that it was just the two of them in that big quiet house, when she'd been so lonely. She'd been so young and lost in a country that wasn't her own, in a house full of people still unsure of her. _And then there was you, my Mary, who did need me, who loved me. You didn't mind my accent or the way I dressed. And I wasn't lonely anymore._

For the first time in so long, she did not think Cora silly in the slightest. Mary knew how it felt to find solace only in a babe, as you rocked and rocked. Instead, in a rusty voice, she replied, "It is hard to be lonely in a rocking chair with a baby in your arms."

* * *

><p>Most everything they did together, in tandem, a team in every sense of the word. When they opened Mrs. Larsen's box <em>together<em> they found it filled to the brim with lacy nightgowns and silk robes_._ Her note was perfectly sufficient to make Mary and Matthew laugh _together _until their sides ached, especially since Mary read it in a cigarette-tinged New York accent. _My man and I are happy there is another Crawley in the world. I am not a vain woman but the way I see it, all the advice and the nightgowns I gave Mary contributed to this little boy's existence and you should thank me, very, very much. You should thank me by visiting, when he is old enough, and by giving Gracie a squeeze for me, and for thinking of me every time you wear one of these lovely garments. Scratch that last part. I only wrote it to make Matthew blush. Silly, silly, man. Remember your wife needs time to heal. Don't pounce on her like a heathen. Are you a gentleman or what? _

_All my love,_

_Mrs. Larsen_

And in the night, though for now they could not turn to one another as they might have done months ago, a rhythm grew between them and Mary sometimes wondered what she'd done before him and what they had done before Jack. And of course, Gracie. What had her life been before all of them?

But this night they lay awake while the baby slept in his cradle and Baby the dog slept on the corner of the bed. Matthew's arms tightened around her. Her toes found his calf. "I don't want to go to work tomorrow," he confessed. He'd said such a thing once before, after they'd returned from New York, and it did feel like they were returning from special place.

She lifted her head to look at him, her hair falling around their faces. "I don't want you to go."

"I'll miss things," he whispered, "I'll miss his first steps, his first words..."

"We are a long way from that, Matthew," she smiled. "And you won't miss things. You pay attention. All the time. To all of us. And I don't want you to go. But I also think, if another month went by without you writing a brief on some industrial nonsense, you might go a little mad."

He kissed her, lingering over her lips, daring to take her lower lip into his mouth, allowing himself to feel the press of her breasts against his chest, her teeth nibbling back. This was not a chaste kiss. They had been so careful since they were not free to complete the act but for a moment, their hands in each other's hair, their need for one another was palpable and something they'd tried to keep dormant was very much alive. When he tried to end the kiss, she moaned and reached for him again, holding his face in her hands, their noses brushing as she traced his lower lip with her tongue and kissed him as a lover. Her hands slid back into his thick hair and she wanted. Oh, she wanted. And wasn't that thrilling? Even as she shifted to lie over him, feeling him heavy and burning through his pajamas and her nightgown, she kissed him, the longest kisses, the best kisses, kisses that seemed to string out for minutes, hours, days. "I love you," he whispered into her mouth. "So much. Too much."

"Not too much," she replied and opened her mouth against the hollow of his throat as he moaned, before the baby began to whimper and they went back to being two parents instead of two lovers, which was for the best since Mrs. Larsen was right and Mary did need some time to heal.

So it was with sad, pitiful eyes that Matthew said goodbye to Mary and Jack who had risen to see him off. Gracie still slept and that was a small mercy because she, unlike Jack, was capable of putting up a fight, of making Matthew feel worse for leaving. "We'll see you so very soon," Mary promised bravely, without tears. "Before you know it, really."

At the office, he was congratulated and questioned. He was given old liquors and cigars and a stuffed bunny for Jack and a teddy for Gracie with a card that read _For your new Jackrabbit and his big sister!_ Matthew considered ringing Mary to tell her about the bunny just so he could hear her say adamantly: _Our son will not have the nickname of Jackrabbit. It's adorable now but it won't be when he goes off to university! People should really consider the power of a nickname. _But he didn't know how he would be able to bear hanging up the telephone after hearing her voice. Instead,he stowed everything on the extra chair in his private office and took off his hat, scarf, gloves, and coat to hang them in the corner. Bristling from the bit of cold in his unused office, trying to think of the work ahead of him, he sat at his desk. In the center, on his blotter, was an envelope bearing his name in Mary's handwriting. He knew her handwriting so well now, after reading so many of her letters. He could tell anyone that her dashes across her Ts were short and quick, the tail on her Ys long and looping. Her Os were thin and her Is meticulously dotted. God, he was a sap to think so lyrically about how a woman, _the_ woman, _his_ woman wrote her letters, but he felt a freedom, just as Mary had.

There was nothing to worry over. Oh, there were things to worry over, but they were normal things. _Is the baby hungry? Did Gracie eat her vegetables?When will the baby sleep through the night? How long until we can make love again? _They teased each other; they laughed with one another. He felt like the man standing between Mary's parted thighs, that damned white robe barely on her shoulders, feeding her cake as sloppily as possible and licking it off–only it had nothing to with lovemaking. They were free, not just from a man, but from memories. Matthew had felt the difference after Jack was born. Everything Mary did, how she touched the children, or him, how she smiled and cried, was slightly different and he had realized that you cannot kill a memory but you can let go of one. You can _live_.

How Mary, with her well known handwriting, had gotten the letter into his office was a secret. Later, when she asked him about it, she would claim she did not know what he was talking about. Later still, when there were more children, and even later still when they outgrew the house, he would find a letter, each and every time, for each and every child, all cleverly hidden out in the open for him to open and find.

But as he opened this first envelope he had no idea what to expect, other than the way her handwriting would look against the paper.

_My Dearest Matthew,_

_I was watching Jack as he slept. Oh, how I love to watch him, to watch his inky black eyelashes brush his skin as he sleeps or better yet, when his eyes (your beautiful eyes) are open and he looks at me. I don't know what he is thinking but I imagine it is something like this: _I don't exactly know you yet, not all the way, but so far you haven't done me any wrong so I suppose we can continue getting to know one another. _(If it were only that easy...how soon he will realize that I _will _do him wrong, how imperfect we all are, how a world that does not revolve around feedings, nappies, and sleep is an imperfect yet lovely one...how soon he will realize that! If only we could protect him_–_them_–_forever.)_

_I used to do the same thing with Gracie, just devour her with my eyes as I fed her and we rocked. I could not get enough. I think it might always be so. She is rarely still now, always booshing her blocks, or running around Baby (whom she still can't catch, even with the limp) so sometimes I find myself sneaking into her room at night and watching her then (I never told you because it used to embarrass me but it doesn't anymore). It's hard to see her even then; you know the way she sleeps. Her head has to be turned just the right way. On those nights I kneel in front of the crib and my breath catches in my throat. Wasn't it just yesterday that she was a baby and we were in New York, we three, making animal sounds? Now she is this little..._person_ who is growing, growing, growing. I cannot stop it or slow it down. I can only watch. _

_So, kneeling in front of her, I make myself promise to always watch. I'll watch her when she sits on a pony for the first time and when she wears her hair up for the first time. I'll watch her when she is finally old enough to wear the necklace you bought her in New York. And I'll watch her when she reads her first love letter; I'll watch her fall in love; I'll watch her heart be broken by some asinine man or by fate or by her own fault and mine will break too. I know and will know her face better than my own. I could find her in a darkened room filled with people. _

_Still, there will be nothing quite so wonderful as watching her at my breast, her dark eyes withholding judgement on a novice mother like myself. (What a kind, gracious baby she was!) For it was there, in that rocking chair, feeding her, that I learned I could be content to watch her for the whole of my life. It was quite a revelation to Lady Mary who was always too much her granny's granddaughter to _watch _anything when she could be doing, doing, doing._

_(I do hope your door is closed because I am about to get rather sentimental with you.)_

_Yesterday, I was rocking Jack, just watching him. His palm lay against my breast. He looked at me and I saw your eyes and it came upon me again that I could watch him forever, that I _would_ watch him forever...and perhaps most importantly, you would be beside me, watching too, holding my hand. That is when I remembered. That is when I remembered something so dreadfully important, I cannot believe it has taken me so long to realize: you have read all the letters that I have written Granny but you have not read the most important letter of all, the letter I am writing to you, the letter that is long overdue. This letter has always been written, just not on paper, per se. Once upon a time, I talked to a friend about engravings on someone's heart; at the time, I did not think I had a heart to engrave anything upon. But I do. Everything written there has to do with you and our family. I shall do my best to transfer these engravings to paper. _

_Do you ever think of those two young people at the Garden Party? Mary in pearls, Matthew in his light_–_colored suit, on the brink of war and not knowing it, too busy fighting one another. Do you ever think of them standing, angry with one another and so far apart too, a thick mixture of yearning and anger thickening the air like humidity? I think of young Mary and Matthew and I pity that she did not have the courage to _tell _and he did not have the humility to _ask_. I wish I could stop them from what they are about to do. But then I would never, I could never stop them. Not just because they are a stubborn lot but because they grew up. How astonishing! How rare! They grew up and made a family and do you know, if things for Mary and Matthew would have happened in the opposite order, if we would have made a family and then grown up, I just don't think I would be as blissfully happy as I am now. I don't know if I would have grown up. _

_If things would have gone in the opposite order, you would not be who you are to me. I would not have allowed you to be my best friend, husband, lover, and father to my children (of course, I would have no control over you being their father but I would not have allowed you to be my partner in parenting them). And you are all those things to me and so much more. Oh, how frustrating it is not to have the words to explain all that you are to me._

_I know only this. When I am frightened, I turn to you in the night and you glide your hand through my hair and scratch my scalp and I purr like a kitten, already half soothed. When I am too stubborn to admit my fears, you make me say them aloud, you make me tell you until, lying in your arms, I am not afraid anymore. You know me. Better than anyone. I suppose you watch me; I suppose I watch you too. And for so long being known, especially by you, scared the life out of me. But it doesn't anymore because...oh, Matthew, I depend on you. I depend on you knowing me and it wasn't so long ago that I was a giant pregnant person in a bathtub crying and whining about depending on you and hating you for it. But something has changed and I know you feel it too, because you know me. _

_A part of me is coming back to life, a part of Lady Mary that I considered long dead. Perhaps this part of me died when my mama had to inform me that the house I loved would only be mine if I married Patrick; perhaps its funeral was then, when I was so disillusioned at eight. Or maybe it died by degrees, overtime, its final resting place in the small library. But really, the truth is, it doesn't matter when it died, only that now, it is living; it is like a small fire kindling, that greedily eats that which you give it, and grows and grows. It could simmer to ashes and die again but I know it won't. It's painful sometimes, this regrowing of a thing once dead, the ability to trust in goodness, the ability to trust in a good and strong man, but the pain only means I am alive. I feel._

_Here, I shall admit it on paper: _I don't know everything. _Don't you dare laugh. You have taught me how to trust and depend and wish and hope. You have made me a better mother, sister, and daughter. You have taught me that needing someone, even someone imperfect like you, is not so very bad. Because you are there to turn to in the middle of the night and you always apologize. You have taught me how to say I am sorry as often as I say I love you to someone other than a child. You have taught me that there can be redemption in any relationship, any scenario, as long as we seek after it._

_It's because of you I believe in miracles. The way you love our children is nothing short of that. You could not adore that little girl more if you tried (and she knows it, you pushover). I am so often amazed watching you with her, your face alight. Though, I think the happiest I have ever seen you was just the other day. You were burping Jack at your shoulder while Gracie sat on your knee and pretended to read you a story. _

Who would you save_, I asked once, a long time ago. _If there was a fire who would you save?_ Jack was still such a little thing inside me that we didn't even know about him. _If there was a fire and you could only save one of your children, who would you save?

_You thought for a long time. And then you said: _I don't know.

_I've never been so relieved for someone not to have an answer. But it was the truth and I know it remains the truth, though I have not asked it since. One need not ask such an obvious question once she has seen your face with both of your children in your lap. _

_I never dreamt or thought to dream that my husband would love me. You are the dream that I did not know how to ask for. When I left for New York, you were the dream I never thought I could have. Now, I lie in bed with you and your arms encircle me or I try to get up to get Jack and you say, _no, let me,_ and bring him to my arms. When my body allowed for it (and as soon as it allows for it again), I would lay my sweating cheek to your naked chest and hear your heart beat so fast, unable to feel my toes. It could all be a dream. But then I am reminded that it is very, very, real. Jack throws up on my nightgown and Gracie is cranky. I snap at you over something small. It is all so blessedly beyond my wildest dreams...to have a man like you to argue with...to make love with..._

_One day we will grow old together. We will watch our children marry and have children. If we are lucky, like Granny, we will watch their children have children. We will love one another more, I know, every day and every year, each time another child is placed in our arms and every time we make love, each time we fight and each time we make up. There will be thousands, millions of chances to love one another more and you, Matthew, have taught me to be greedy with each chance._

_Even if all we ever do is grow old with one another, our life shall be a grand adventure. _

_This is the only love letter I have written and perhaps not the words so much as the emotions are very much engraved on the beating heart in my chest. I would take it from my chest and give it to you if I could. Words seem paltry when I consider all the feelings I have for you. Sometimes, I am still afraid to say hard things. But not _as _afraid now. Yet, I am surprised and glad to find that nothing in this letter was hard to say at all. Most of all, I love you, my darling._

_Yours without any regrets,_

_Mary_

* * *

><p><em>AN: I've written over 300k of words for this story. Would you mind hitting the review button and letting Faeyero and I know what you think, whether you have before or whether it will be your first time?_


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